


Gondorian Holiday

by myrtlebroadbelt



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Erebor Never Fell, Deception, False Identity, Gondor, Humor, Lies, M/M, Minas Tirith, Misunderstandings, Roman Holiday AU, Royalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 09:52:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 36,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5412371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrtlebroadbelt/pseuds/myrtlebroadbelt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a goodwill visit to Minas Tirith, Prince Thorin of Erebor decides it’s about time he experienced the world without a guard at his back. He soon finds himself in the company of Bilbo Baggins, a library scribe desperate to return to his home in the West. Documenting Thorin’s illicit adventure is exactly what he needs to do it. Of course, Thorin doesn’t know this. And Bilbo doesn’t know that Thorin is royalty. Or at least, that’s what Thorin thinks.</p><p>Based on the 1953 William Wyler classic Roman Holiday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Everyone would agree that Thorin, Son of Thráin, Prince of Erebor, is handling his first goodwill tour of the realms of Men remarkably well.

His meeting about trade relations with Dale was enormously productive, and all anyone could talk about after his departure was what a magnificent King Under the Mountain he would make someday, and how proud they were to dwell in his proximity. The people cheered as his royal procession made its way through the streets, the children standing open-mouthed in awe at his majesty and the women whispering gleefully to each other about how tall he was for a dwarf.

In Rohan, Thorin displayed no hesitance in consuming King Fengel’s twelve-course meal, complimenting the salted pork and robust ale in between civil conversations with members of the court. Before his departure, he graciously accepted a request to display his swordsmanship in a sparring match with one of the King’s Riders. He emerged victorious, although the private consensus among the residents of Edoras was that the match was rigged. That didn’t stop them from marveling at the dwarf prince’s masterful form, or the way his braids danced through the air with each swing of his weapon.

His final stop in Minas Tirith began with an honorable welcome from the Tower Guard, complete with trumpeters playing a rousing rendition of Erebor’s anthem. He bowed in thanks and was even heard to comment that he would have to downplay the musicians’ talent upon returning home so as not to insult Erebor’s hornblowers.

Yes, Prince Thorin has been representing his kingdom with stunning aplomb.

If only they knew how much he hates it.

On the final evening before his scheduled departure from Minas Tirith, Thorin is led into Merethrond, the Hall of Feasts, for a formal reception attended by Turgon, Gondor’s aging steward, as well as his son Ecthelion and several members of the nobility. At the far end of the grand hall is a dais on which Thorin is expected to stand while greeting the attendees one by one prior to the banquet.

Thorin is dressed in one of his finest fur-trimmed robes, dyed blue and intricately embroidered with silver thread. It trails several inches behind him across the marble floor. He has unfortunately chosen to wear a new pair of boots, his favorites having been soiled earlier in the day by an unexpected pile of dog excrement in the center of the city’s stone street.

Thorin’s advisor Balin had apologized, admitting that he should have seen—or smelled—the pile coming. His bodyguard Dwalin, meanwhile, appeared to be using all his self-control not to clobber the thoughtless owner. He would never clobber the dog, of course. Dwalin has a soft spot for animals, Thorin knows, although he’d never admit to it.

At the time, Thorin hadn’t thought much of the incident, but now he’s very much wishing Balin had warned him in time, because his replacement boots feel as if they were made for a dwarfling. They pinch in all the worst places, and the walk to the dais feels as if it’s miles long.

When he’s finished nodding to the attending nobility and finally reaches his destination, he moves to sit on the plush velvet chair and relieve his tired feet, but before he can even bend his knees, Balin is vigorously shaking his head and motioning for him to remain standing. Thorin grimaces and does as he’s told, facing the crowd and preparing for what will surely be a long and tedious greeting process.

Indeed, each and every person in attendance is introduced to Thorin by their name and their father’s name and their title, in the usual grand and painstaking fashion. Thorin is grateful that the height of the dais puts him at eye level with the taller Men. It can be very uncomfortable having to look up so much, and he expects this must be easier on their backs when they bow.

Thorin has just finished nodding respectfully to the steward and his entire family when he privately concludes he can no longer tolerate standing in these accursed boots. His right foot feels particularly victimized.

That’s when he gets an idea.

His robe is long enough to completely cover both of his feet, so he gets to work secretly removing the troublesome boot. It takes a fair amount of toe-wiggling, a few twists of his ankle, and the surreptitious assistance of his other foot, but he eventually accomplishes it.

The sudden escape sets him off balance just as he’s greeting Thengel, son of Fengel of Rohan, and his beautiful wife Morwen Steelsheen. He smiles at them politely and sets his socked foot on the ground. It’s all he can do not to sigh with relief. He can sense Balin staring at him curiously, but he ignores it. He has this under control.

Unless he doesn’t.

When everyone has been greeted, the steward announces that a brief concert will be performed before they move to the dining table. It’s then that Thorin realizes the grievous mistake he’s made. Getting his foot out of his boot under his robe may have been mildly troublesome, but putting it back on without the use of his hands is another story. And he can’t very well walk around with one boot missing for the entire evening.

As the band is setting up for their performance, Thorin turns desperately to Balin, hoping that maybe the old dwarf will sense his exact dilemma and provide some sort of assistance. Balin only jerks his head urgently in the direction of the chair, instructing him to sit. But Thorin can’t do that, lest everyone present discover his secret. He shakes his head in defiance, determined to stand for as long as possible. But Balin is having none of that, sidling up beside him and speaking out of the side of his mouth.

“Thorin, now is the time to sit.”

“Can’t,” Thorin grunts.

“What are you talking about?” Balin mumbles without looking at him. “Just sit in the chair.”

“Boot,” Thorin replies.

“What?”

“Boot’s off.”

Balin turns to him with a furrowed brow, so Thorin nods at his feet. Balin lowers his gaze. Thorin lets his sock peek out ever so slightly from beneath his robe. Balin looks so disturbed his beard is close to flying off. He shoots his prince a scolding glare before gesturing for Dwalin to approach them. The bald dwarf pauses his suspicious scanning of the room to do as his brother requests.

“Look as if we’re discussing something important,” Balin mutters.

“Eh?” Dwalin questions, looking to Thorin, who only shrugs.

“Just do it, would you?” Balin insists.

And so they do. It takes Thorin a few seconds to understand precisely why they’re standing in front of him, effectively blocking the party’s view of the chair. Upon realizing what they expect him to do, he quickly scrambles backwards into his seat, his boot remaining in front of him on the floor. He rushes to grab it and shove it back onto his foot. When he’s finally done it and placed his robes neatly in front of him, Balin and Dwalin separate and retreat to their positions at either side of him.

By the time the band begins playing, no one is the wiser.

He’s sure to hear it from Balin later.

* * *

“Really, laddie, is it so much to ask that you do as you’re expected?”

They’re in Thorin’s guest quarters after the banquet, about to go over the next day’s schedule. Thorin has shrugged off his robe and thrown his tunic over a chair, and he’s sitting on the edge of the far-too-large bed in only his trousers, undoing his braids while Balin lectures him.

The white-haired dwarf is pacing back and forth in front of him droning on and on. “I won’t always be able to fix things when you go and step in it—either figuratively or literally, as we discovered today... and Thorin?”

Thorin, who has only been half-listening, glances up at the mention of his name.

“Please put on a sleeping tunic,” Balin requests.

Thorin shakes his head and places his hair clasps on the bedside table. “It’s too warm,” he explains, reclining on the bed with his hands behind his head, furry chest and underarms exposed without shame.

He’s doing it to annoy Balin, and the old dwarf knows it. “Please, laddie,” he says with a sigh. “What if someone were to walk in?”

“Do you know, Balin, that there are some people who sleep with absolutely nothing on at all?” Thorin asks with a smirk.

“Those people are not the prince of Erebor,” Balin retorts, handing Thorin a shirt.

He accepts it, only to toss it aside a second later. He gets up from the bed and strides across the room to the balcony, following the sound of merriment somewhere in the city. He’s not used to his quarters being so open to the outside. His bedchamber in the Mountain has no windows, and he’s never thought much of it before now. It would be quite something to be able to see the stars from his own private balcony at night, no guard at his back and no Balin breathing down his neck about schedules.

“Thorin, _please_ put this on,” the advisor begs on cue, hurrying after him with the shirt in his hand.

Thorin takes it and tugs it over his head without a word as he looks out into the night. The railing is just high enough that his head and shoulders are exposed, and he can see lights and movement on the level below. And there’s music too, and laughter. He’d guess there is some sort of celebration going on.

He wishes he could spend an hour or two with the people down there, instead of the stiff-jawed nobility with whom he’s been forced to interact for the past several months.

Balin interrupts his pondering by sitting down on a nearby bench and opening his journal, better known as the bane of Thorin’s existence. He flips through a few pages to reach the correct date and begins reading out the next day’s activities.

“First is breakfast with the steward and his family. After that you’ll deliver your speech in the Court of the Fountain. Now, please remember that when you discuss relations with other races, limit your remarks to dwarves and _Men_. Especially avoid any mention of the Elves, for reasons I’m sure you understand.”

Thorin doesn’t respond, only remains leaning on the railing and gazing into the night, so Balin continues.

“Then it’s back here to rest for an hour. No, that’s not right.” He scribbles a notation. “Rather, directly after your speech you’ll make a visit to the Houses of Healing, then a council meeting about military alliances. After that you’ll eat a brief meal—take no longer than half an hour, if you please—before your procession through the city. The caravans will depart before sundown.” He squints at the page. “Oh, but when will you change into your traveling clothes? I suppose you could do it in the caravan itself. It isn’t too bumpy the first few miles out, and you really don’t have time otherwise…”

“Enough!” Thorin shouts suddenly, gripping the stone railing with both hands. “Will I ever be allowed peace from schedules and protocol?”

“Thorin, lower your voice. The whole city will hear you.”

“I don’t care if they hear me!” he growls. “Let them hear me! Let them hear anything other than a regal nod and a rehearsed remark about friendships between races!”

“In fact,” Balin points out, “it’s those kinds of remarks that I’ve just told you to please avoid.”

Thorin casts him a fierce scowl, so the old dwarf attempts a different tack.

“You’ve had a long day, laddie. Why don’t you sleep?”

“I don’t want to sleep.” Thorin paces the balcony, one hand running frantically through his beard and the other gesturing wildly in the air. “The sooner I sleep, the sooner I’ll have to wake up and do everything you’ve just mentioned, and the sooner I’ll leave this place and return home having wasted half a year traveling across the world without actually _seeing_ it from anywhere but the window of a caravan or a seat in a great hall.”

“I’m getting Óin,” Balin says wearily, standing up and walking back into the room and towards the door.

“No, I don’t need Óin,” Thorin objects, stomping after him. “Don’t you dare get him! I’ll jump off that balcony and you’ll never see me again!”

Balin, who is used to Thorin’s moods and therefore unfazed by his threats, closes the door behind him without another word.

Thorin collapses face-first onto the four-poster bed with a groan.

Let him die here and never listen to another schedule ever again.

Eventually the door creaks open, and Thorin hears the voice of Óin , the doctor who has been traveling with him and his entourage since the start of his tour. He has no idea why the dwarf was chosen, as he has next to no hearing left and is prone to making Thorin drink the most vile-tasting concoctions.

“He’s asleep,” Óin notes.

“He was in hysterics just a few moments ago,” Balin insists.

“He was where?”

“In hysterics!”

“All right, there’s no need to shout. Let’s take a look at him.”

Thorin hears them come closer to the bed. “Are you asleep, laddie?” Óin asks him.

“No,” he moans, burying his face further into the pillow.

“He said no,” Balin informs Óin.

“Yes, I figured as much,” the doctor replies in annoyance. “Now, lad, why don’t you sit up and we can see what’s wrong?”

Thorin heaves a deep sigh, tired of arguing, and flips himself over, leaning against the headboard. He looks up at the grey-haired doctor and asks, “Well then, what’s wrong with me?”

Óin takes a moment to examine Thorin’s face, tilting it to and fro and holding his eyes open with his fingertips to get a closer look. He instructs Thorin to open his mouth so he can inspect his throat and then places the back of his rough hand to his forehead. “I don’t see anything wrong, but let’s give you a little something just in case.”

“No, I don’t need anyth—” Thorin begins to object, but Óin has already slipped a spoon between his lips. Thorin tastes something bitter and syrupy slide across his tongue. He coughs. “What is that?”

“It’s my own recipe. Just a few things to help you sleep.”

He pours Thorin a cup of water from the jug on the bedside table. Thorin swishes the liquid around in his mouth to try and clear the lingering taste. It doesn’t do much good.

“May I be left alone now?” he huffs, setting the cup aside and sinking down into the pillows.

Óin defers to Balin, who rolls his eyes. “Very well, do as you like. I’ll be waking you early tomorrow so we can go over your speech.”

In response, Thorin rolls away from him.

“I’m too old for this,” he hears Balin mutter as he leaves the room, blowing out the lanterns on his way.

“What did you say?” asks Óin.

“Nothing.”

Balin leaves the door ajar, and Thorin knows that on the other side, Dwalin is stationed for the first watch, boots planted firmly on the ground. His grim stare alone is enough to ward off intruders, axe or none.

Thorin lies on his back staring up at the ceiling. Encircling the room and looking down at him are the carved heads of several kings of old, illuminated by the incoming moonlight. Thorin feels that all of their stone gazes, from any direction, are fixed on him. Even alone in his bedchamber, he’s being watched.

Upon hearing more laughter wafting up from the lower level, Thorin tears the covers away and returns to the balcony. The air has a slight crispness to it, the comfortable weather of early autumn. He looks out beyond the city’s walls to see the black, craggy peaks of Mordor in the distance. There is a dark cloud above it, but over where he stands there are only stars. He tilts his head back to get a better view.

Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, a firefly flutters through his vision overhead. It flickers bright golden, almost a star but not quite. He follows its path downward, seeing it dance around the bench for a moment and then disappear onto the adjacent balcony.

He hears another laugh from down below and makes a decision.

Thorin turns back into the bedchamber and lights a candle, making sure to keep it in the far corner so as not to draw Dwalin’s attention from outside. In the low light, he rummages through his traveling chest until he finds the plainest tunic in his possession. It’s still no peasant’s blouse, having rather intricate embroidery around the edges, but the thread is dark blue and barely noticeable at a distance.

His medium-length beard, which he would usually braid and clasp with a silver bead, he instead simply brushes out. He redoes the two plaits in his hair and fastens them with the twine from a few rolled-up parchments sitting in the chest. His hair clasps he leaves on the bedside table, along with his rings and his ear cuff.

As for boots, he chooses his soiled ones from earlier. They’ve yet to be cleaned, but they’re comfortable, and the added grime is appropriate for the effect he’s attempting to achieve.

He glances at himself quickly in the mirror and concludes that there isn’t much else he can do. So he blows out the candle and creeps back onto the balcony, one eye on the door. He can see the back of Dwalin’s bald head through the opening.

Once outside, he leans over the railing and assesses the distance to the next balcony over. It’s slightly lower than this one, but well within jumping distance. He notes that it connects to the Hall of Feasts, where the reception was held earlier in the evening, and it appears to be dark inside.

Thorin rolls up his sleeves and, with the help of a bench, hoists himself—one boot and then the other—onto the stone. He crouches for a moment before carefully standing. One last glance at the space and then…

1… 2… 3… _Jump!_

He makes it, but in the darkness he failed to notice the flower pot sitting just beyond the railing. He steps directly into it, shattering it into a pile of soil and shards.

He stumbles forward on all fours and holds his breath, listening and hoping that the noise wasn’t loud enough for Dwalin to hear.

After a few moments without any guards rushing towards him, he creeps into the Hall of Feasts. It’s dark, like he thought, but he can make out the dais on which he sat earlier and the grand table where they dined. He struggles to keep his footsteps quiet, but his boots are disobeying him. He winces with every movement, slowly making his way to the door.

He stops in his tracks when he remembers that there are two members of the Tower Guard standing directly outside. They’ve been standing watch there every night since he arrived, and he expects tonight will be no different. Anyway, he isn’t going to risk being caught by opening the door to check.

Thorin turns this way and that in the middle of the enormous floor, deciding what to do. He’s beginning to seriously consider jumping from the balcony onto the city level below when he hears voices outside the door, and then…

Is it opening?

Yes, it’s definitely opening.

Thorin falls to his hands and knees and scrambles beneath the dining table, planting himself behind one of the enormous chairs and peeking through the closest available space. A light shines across the floor from the open door, and a man steps into it. Thorin can’t see higher than his legs, but he watches as the man strides past the table towards the back of the hall. Peeking his head out briefly from his hiding place, Thorin sees him enter what looks like the kitchen.

He waits.

He waits longer.

After a few moments, the man returns carrying several sacks. He walks past the table and towards the door. Thorin peeks out again and has to stop himself from gasping at what he discovers. A small hand-drawn cart stands in the doorway. The man places the sacks on the back. Thorin expects him to step around to the front and leave, but instead the man turns to reenter the hall.

Thorin pulls his head back under the table just in time. He watches the man’s feet travel once again to the kitchen.

It’s now or never.

Thorin crawls out from under the table and scurries on all fours towards the door. He must look very unprincely, but if someone actually sees him doing this, how princely he looks will be the least of his worries.

Thorin gently moves aside the sacks which are already on the cart and climbs in as quietly and quickly as he can without the nearby guards noticing. He repositions the sacks so he’s hidden behind them, scrunching his body down as much as he can, which isn’t easy. He may be a dwarf, but he still takes up a fair amount of space.

It doesn’t take long for the man to return with a second batch of sacks, which, judging by the smell surrounding Thorin, contain rubbish. The rubbish man closes the wooden gate at the back of the cart and moves to the front.

The cart begins to move.

“Ugh, heavy load tonight,” he remarks to the guards as he passes. “What was the occasion?”

“A reception,” one of the guards answers, “for the Prince of Erebor.”

“A dwarf?” the rubbish man scoffs. “How much could he eat?”

Enough to considerably weigh down a rubbish cart, it would seem.

The cart moves slowly away from the Citadel and down to the next level, the driver’s breathing getting more and more labored the further they get. The ride is bumpy, and there’s something very uncomfortable poking Thorin in the stomach through one of the sacks. He’d very much like to get out of this thing.

On top of this, he’s feeling very drowsy all of a sudden. Óin’s remedy seems to be taking effect.

Thorin keeps his eyes open long enough to feel the cart come to a halt. Peeking between two sacks, he can see the driver enter another building marked "Stables." Carefully, he raises his head and takes in his surroundings. They’re on a quiet street below the Citadel, no guards in sight.

Thorin rushes to exit the cart before the man returns, knocking a few sacks onto the ground in the process. He tosses them back and hurries away down the dimly lit cobblestone.

It isn’t long before Thorin passes someone—an old man in a long black cloak. Thorin tenses, thinking this is the end. He’ll recognize him. Perhaps he’s even been sent to look for him, having given himself away with that broken pot on the balcony.

But the man just nods at him and keeps moving.

Thorin can hardly believe it. He’s done it. He’s escaped. He’s out in the world, on his own, with no one guarding his back or bowing to him. He’s just another passerby at whom to nod. He never would have imagined such a scenario would even happen, let alone that it would be so thrilling, so exhilarating in its illicit simplicity.

He yearns to find the source of the celebratory sounds that coaxed him out of his room earlier in the night.

If only he didn’t feel so tired.

He spots a bench ahead of him and struggles to reach it, his legs feeling so heavy it’s as if he’s moving underwater. When he gets to his destination and begins to sit, he very nearly misses the bench.

His head is swimming. Everything around him is a blur.

His eyelids are falling closed.

He feels so tired he could fall asleep right here.

So tired. So, so, so, so...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Several months ago I rewatched Roman Holiday, one of my all-time favorite movies. I have a tendency to look for Bagginshield AU possibilities in practically everything I watch, and I couldn’t stop brainstorming this one.
> 
> I briefly considered making this “Rohan Holiday,” because I’d only have to change one letter, but I decided that Minas Tirith would work better, as it’s been compared to Rome several times and is, in my opinion, a more dynamic setting. Story wins over punniness, I’m afraid.
> 
> This is my first Bagginshield fic, so I’d love to hear what you think. Follow me on [Tumblr](http://myrtlebroadbelt.tumblr.com/) for fic updates and general Hobbit obsessiveness. 
> 
> P.S. If you’ve never seen Roman Holiday, I wholeheartedly recommend it, as it’s just about the most charming thing you’ll ever experience. For those with US Netflix, it’s currently available on instant streaming.


	2. Chapter 2

The conker cracks as it hits the cobblestone.

“Ha!” Bilbo shouts victoriously, swinging his still intact rope so that it coils around his index finger. He points this finger at the young boy standing at eye level with him. “Told you I was good.”

The boy sulks, kicking at the shattered remnants of his failure. He looks at Bilbo hopefully. “Best two out of three?”

The hobbit goes from pointing his finger to wagging it. “No, no. That’s not what we agreed. I said one game. And anyway, I have an early start tomorrow. Now pay up, please.”

The boy groans and reaches into his pocket.

“What are you doing tomorrow, Mr. Bilbo?” asks a second boy, this one slightly taller.

“Listening to a prince deliver a speech,” Bilbo says, sticking his thumbs in the pockets of his waistcoat and remembering with disappointment that it’s made of dull grey wool. The textiles in this city are dreadful. If only he’d brought more with him from home.

“What kind of prince?” the boy asks.

“A dwarf prince. Haven’t you heard about his visit?”

The boy shakes his head.

“Well, he’s visiting, and he’s giving a speech tomorrow, and I’m to transcribe it.”

“What’s he like?”

“Who? The prince? I couldn’t tell you. Princely, I’d imagine. I’ll let you know after I’ve seen him.”

The shorter boy finishes rummaging through the varied contents of his pockets—he’s removed several buttons and sweet wrappers so far—and hands Bilbo three coins. “That’s all I’ve got,” he explains.

“Thank you very much,” Bilbo says, taking the payment and stuffing it into his own pocket. His fingertips have barely removed themselves from the cold metal before he’s pulling two of the coins back out with a sigh. “Oh for goodness’ sake, here.”

The boy’s face, previously forlorn and probably conjuring up a way to explain to his mother where his allowance disappeared to, lights up, and he accepts the refund. “Thank you, Mr. Bilbo.”

“Very well. Now run along back home and put that to better use than gambling at conkers.”

The boys hurry off down the street. “Good luck with the prince!” the taller boy shouts over his shoulder.

Bilbo waves and starts off in the opposite direction. He gives his conker one last swing around his finger before pocketing it along with his winnings. He doubts he has more in his pocket than that boy does. In fact, he _knows_ he doesn’t. He’d just prefer not to confirm it right now.

Playing conkers in the street at night with children to make a few coins. How did he get here?

Well, he remembers _how_ he got here—by accepting Gandalf’s offer of a rewarding adventure to the world of Men. Exactly when it stopped being an adventure and started being miserable he can’t quite pinpoint. It might have been some time during his second month sitting in the dark, dusty Minas Tirith library copying down scroll after scroll and tome after tome. It’s now the sixth month, and that pile of parchment hasn’t gotten any smaller, nor his pocket book any fuller.

Bilbo steps aside to allow a hand-drawn rubbish cart to race past him at an alarming speed. A light load tonight, apparently.

His stomach rumbles. Another drawback of living in a city of Men without much pocket change, in addition to the somber textiles, is the cutting out of several traditional hobbit meals each day. His braces have required a considerable adjustment since he arrived. He would kill for a roast chicken with Shire seasoning. And a decent cup of tea.

Bilbo nods at a passing man in a black cloak and continues his walk.

It’s a few buildings later that he sees him. He’s lying on a stone bench, on his side, with his back facing the street. He’s smaller than a man, but larger than a hobbit, and certainly not a child. A dwarf, Bilbo concludes.

He’s seen dwarves before. There are a few here and there living and working in the city, and one of them even works as a fellow scribe. But he’s never seen one sleeping in the street in the middle of the night. Probably can’t hold his liquor. Bilbo sniffs, imagining he could probably drink him under the table and briefly wondering if perhaps that’s how he should start making his money from now on.

He doesn’t have much time to consider this any further, however, since the drowsing dwarf is now rolling over onto his back—and off the edge of the bench.

“Watch out!” Bilbo cries, rushing forward to stop him from falling. Unfortunately he is neither fast enough nor strong enough to prevent the pull of gravity. The dwarf collapses to the ground in a heap of thick limbs and unruly hair.

It’s black hair, Bilbo notes as the dwarf groans and lies face-up below him. His beard is the same color. He's younger than Bilbo expected, and he looks surprisingly clean given his current state—not to mention the smell. It’s as if he’s been rolling around in a pile of rubbish and manure.

“Pardon me,” Bilbo begins, lightly poking the dwarf’s shoulder with his big toe, “you’ve fallen out of bed.”

The dwarf mutters something strange and rough-sounding, keeping his eyes closed.

“If that’s your language, I don’t speak it,” Bilbo informs him.

“So happy,” the dwarf mumbles sleepily, his voice startlingly deep, a lazy smile decorating his face.

Bilbo huffs an incredulous laugh. “Well, I’m very glad to hear it, but perhaps you’d be happier if you weren’t lying on the ground?”

“Happy,” is all the dwarf can say.

Bilbo sighs, placing his hands on his hips. This is a very drunk dwarf. He’s dealt with drunk hobbits before, but this is an entirely different matter. A heavier, smellier matter.

He’s just about to turn around and leave the dwarf to his blissful inebriation when he notices him slowly open his eyes and squint up at him. After a moment of dazed blinking, bright blue irises disappearing and reappearing, the dwarf addresses him: “ _Ú-bedin edhellen_.”

Bilbo wonders if he needs his ears cleaned. Surely he couldn’t have just heard what he thinks he just heard. “Did you just… Was that Sindarin?”

The strange irony of this situation is that the dwarf has just informed him, in Elvish, that he does not speak Elvish.

“ _Ú-bedin edhellen_ ,” the dwarf repeats.

“Well, it certainly sounds like you do,” Bilbo argues, astounded. A dwarf who knows Sindarin—and is wearing surprisingly well-crafted clothing, Bilbo notices—is sleeping on a bench in the middle of the night in Minas Tirith. The world appears to have turned upside down when he wasn’t paying attention.

Bilbo knows he should just leave, that only trouble can come from interacting with a strange drunken dwarf on a dark and deserted street, but he’s suddenly nothing but fascinated.

“Perhaps you should sit up,” he suggests, and, much to his surprise, the dwarf takes his suggestion, albeit clumsily.

His eyelids are still drooping and his speech is still slurred as he tells Bilbo, “You may sit down.”

Bilbo couldn’t tell you why, but he does.

“So happy,” the dwarf says yet again, this time punctuating it by falling heavily to one side, his head bumping against Bilbo’s leg.

“Oh, no, let’s not do that,” Bilbo says, gently nudging him away, much to the dwarf’s disgruntlement.

Where does he go from here? Should he ask the dwarf where he lives so he can help him get home? No, certainly not. That would be very inappropriate. But what is he to do instead? Just sit here until sunrise periodically shoving the dwarf’s head away from his knee? Why did he even stop to speak with him in the first place?

He doesn’t have to think on it for very long, as he soon spots an approaching passenger cart being pulled by a pair of men. Like the rubbish cart that passed earlier, these small vehicles are pulled through the narrow streets of the city from morning to night, taking up much less space and being easier to maneuver than anything horse-drawn.

Usually Bilbo forgoes a cart and walks to his destination, both to save coin and because he quite likes the exercise. But it would do a much better job of getting a slumbering dwarf off the street than his own two boots are likely to in his condition.

Bilbo stands abruptly to call the cart over, causing the once-again teetering dwarf to miss the support of his leg and collapse on the ground. He doesn’t seem to be very bothered by it, however, simply pillowing his face on his hands and smiling.

The cart comes to a stop in front of them.

“Look, a cart has come to take you home. On your feet.”

The dwarf mumbles a low refusal. Bilbo glances at the men pulling the cart, who are staring at them curiously. A hobbit trying to get a drowsy dwarf onto his feet probably isn’t a sight they see every day.

“Come now,” Bilbo tells him, “don’t be obstinate. Surely you’d rather be in bed than sleeping on the ground.”

When he still doesn’t budge, Bilbo hesitantly leans down and tugs on the sleeve of his tunic. “Come on, up you get.”

After a few more insistent yanks, the dwarf groans and stands up—with more than a little assistance from the bench beside him. “At your service,” he mumbles with a short off-center bow.

Bilbo notices with no small degree of annoyance that the dwarf, despite being a dwarf, is still noticeably taller than him. It feels like ages since he stood at eye level with someone who wasn’t a child, but it is nice not to tilt his head quite so much.

He’s just about to guide the dwarf towards the cart when he remembers something. “Do you have any money with you?”

The dwarf shakes his head. “Never carry money.”

“That’s not a very good habit, trust me,” Bilbo remarks.

He stands there for a moment, uncertain. The men are becoming impatient. The dwarf is becoming less and less likely to remain upright. After a brief eye roll, at himself just as much as at his new acquaintance, Bilbo pulls the dwarf towards the cart and urges him in and across the seat. Then he steps in with him.

He can’t believe he’s doing this, but as long as he is, he may as well get a ride home out of it.

Both men twist their necks to stare at the pair of them. “Where would you like to go?” one of them asks.

“Where do you live?” Bilbo asks the dwarf, deciding that propriety stopped applying to this situation long ago.

“Mountain,” the dwarf mutters, leaning against the side of the cart with his eyes closed.

“No, where do you live here, in Minas Tirith?”

“Citadel.”

Bilbo sighs. “This is no time to be funny. Now where do you live?”

The dwarf replies by opening his mouth and snoring.

Bilbo has had quite enough. He gives the men his own address and, after exchanging a glance with each other, they get moving.

The dwarf spends the entire ride making the rudest noises in his sleep. Bilbo sits as far away from him as possible, resting his head on his hand and looking out at the city passing by. People are blowing out their candles for the night, bakers are closing up shop, even the drunkards are stumbling home. “See,” Bilbo would like to say to his companion, “ _they’re_ not sleeping on benches.”

When they arrive at their destination, he steps out and hands one of the men the coin he won from conkers. Just as the man is reaching into his pouch to retrieve the change, Bilbo stops him.

“Keep that,” he says, and then points to the dwarf who is still snoring in the back of the cart. “Take him wherever he wants to go.”

The men look at him with wide eyes. The one farther away from Bilbo shakes his head. “No, sir. We don’t want him.”

“Well, I’ve never seen him before this evening,” Bilbo argues, “and I’ve done more than enough for him already, so I’d very much appreciate it if you’d take him off my hands.”

The man closer to him holds out the change. “If you won’t take him, we’ll just toss him out,” he insists.

Bilbo pinches the bridge of his nose. He glances at the dwarf, still with that silly smile on his face. He wonders who he is, how he got here. There’s something about him that tells Bilbo he’s not usually one to lie drunk on a bench. Perhaps some bad luck befell him.

A sad thought enters his mind then, that perhaps the dwarf couldn’t tell him where home was because he doesn’t have one. He remembers his parents, how they allowed homeless hobbits to stay in Bag End during the Fell Winter. He was very young then, but it stuck with him, and he vowed to do the same as them if the opportunity ever arose.

He groans and accepts the change.

That’s how he ends up with a heavy dwarf drowsing against his back while he attempts to unlock the wrought-iron gate that opens onto the courtyard leading to his room. Carefully, Bilbo shifts his weight backwards, causing the dwarf to teeter on his heels for a moment before fortunately standing upright—with his mouth away from Bilbo’s shoulder.

When the gate is open, Bilbo steps through it and encourages the dwarf to follow him, like someone might call a particularly uncooperative dog. Things are going smoothly until they reach the short stone staircase leading up to his room. The dwarf walks right past it and bumps his nose on the side of the building, letting out an enormous word in his own language that Bilbo can only assume is a curse.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Bilbo hisses, wary of waking his neighbors. He checks the dwarf’s nose and, finding it free of injury beyond a slight redness, motions for him to follow in the right direction.

When he moves to unlock his door, the dwarf once again finds it necessary to use him as a pillow. “You really must stop doing that,” Bilbo tells him, this time simply walking forward and allowing his very hairy shadow to fall face-first into the room beyond. There’s a soft carpet there to catch his fall, of course; Bilbo isn’t cruel.

While the hobbit sets about lighting the place, the dwarf lifts himself onto his elbows and appraises his new environment. “Is this a closet?” he asks.

“It’s my room,” Bilbo says, mildly offended.

The dwarf looks very surprised to hear it—as surprised as someone who is two blinks from falling asleep is capable of looking. “May I sleep here?” he asks.

“That’s the idea.”

The dwarf struggles to his feet and gives a tremendous yawn. Bilbo is thankful for being on the other side of the room, otherwise he can imagine what the smell would be like.

“May I remove my clothes?” the dwarf asks suddenly.

Bilbo burns his thumb on the match he’s holding. Cursing under his breath, he turns to the dwarf, who is already reaching for the laces of his tunic, and clears his throat. “Well, I’d, um… I’d rather prefer that you keep them on, if you don’t mind.”

The dwarf appears very disappointed about this but obeys nonetheless.

“This is very strange,” he says, bending down to undo the buckles of his boots. “I’ve never slept in a room this small before.”

“Is that so?” Bilbo responds, opening his wardrobe to retrieve an extra pillow and quilt. “Well, I’ve never taken a strange dwarf home with me before. There’s a first time for everything.”

Describing his current situation out loud suddenly makes him very nervous, and he surreptitiously pockets the letter opener sitting on his writing desk. He doubts the dwarf is capable of any effective violence in his state, but it’s never a bad idea to hide any pointy objects in the presence of street-sleeping strangers.

When Bilbo turns around, the dwarf is hopping on one foot attempting to remove his boot.

“It might help for you to sit down to do that,” he suggests.

So the dwarf makes to sit on the edge of Bilbo’s neatly made bed.

“No, not on the bed, if you please,” he objects, rushing forward. “On the sofa.”

Bilbo places the fresh linens on said sofa. It was made for Men, but is still modest in size, like the bed, and quite uncomfortable, with lumpy cushions and itchy upholstery. The dwarf falls so heavily onto it that it tilts backwards into the wall with a loud thump.

When both of his boots are off, he sits looking around the room for a moment before fixing his gaze on Bilbo, who is leaning over the arm of the sofa checking the wall for damage. Sensing that he’s being watched, he glances over at the dwarf.

“It’s impolite to stare,” he says.

“ _Ú-bedin edhellen_ ,” the dwarf replies sleepily.

"Yes, you’ve said that already,” Bilbo informs him.

The dwarf responds by collapsing onto the provided pillow and propping his socked feet up on the other end—directly under Bilbo’s nose. The hobbit holds his breath and heads for the tiny adjoining washroom.

“I’m going to wash up.”

“You have my permission to withdraw,” the dwarf says, eyes closed and hands behind his head.

Bilbo blinks. “Thank you?”

Once he’s in the washroom with the door closed, he splashes his face with water in the hope of waking himself up from whatever absurd dream he’s most certainly trapped in. It doesn’t work.

He wonders if he should have brought his nightshirt to change into, but decides he’s better just sleeping in his clothes. Changing into a nightshirt makes the whole thing feel significantly more intentional. As if he intended to have a drunken dwarf he doesn’t know spend the night in his room with him. As if this is a normal occurrence, which it decidedly is _not_.

His neighbors back home would have a lot to say about this. Even more so if they could see what Bilbo discovers when he emerges from the washroom.

The dwarf has found his way off the sofa, onto the bed and under the covers, and he is most definitely _not_ wearing a tunic. Bilbo notices the garment lying in a heap on the rug, and he lets out a relieved sigh to discover there are no discarded trousers alongside it.

“Excuse me,” Bilbo huffs irritably, striding over to the bed. “I told you to sleep on the sofa.”

The dwarf is facing away from Bilbo, his bare, broad back visible past the edge of the quilt, his hair a dark puddle spreading across the cream-colored pillow. He’s snoring again.

Bilbo reaches out to shake him awake, but he stops before making contact. His hand hovers in the air over the dwarf’s shoulder. Oh, that’s… skin. He couldn’t… No, he shouldn’t… He moves his hand slightly to the right, thinking maybe he can give the dwarf a nudge where he’s covered by the quilt, but that’s getting dangerously close to other areas he’d prefer not to touch.

So he pulls his hand back and stands beside the bed with his arms crossed, glaring at the back of the dwarf’s head. “Excuse me,” he says again.

The dwarf just snores.

“Excuse me!” he says more loudly.

The snores seem to be getting louder to match him.

“Oh, bother it all,” Bilbo exhales, removing his jacket and waistcoat and starting for the sofa.

* * *

It’s nearly dawn. Balin is pacing the empty bedchamber when his brother steps through the door.

“No sign of him,” Dwalin says.

“You searched everywhere?”

“The entire Citadel, save the steward’s quarters.”

Balin runs a palm over his face. “All right. I need you to listen to me very carefully. No one must know about this. We’ll release a message at sunrise informing the public that the prince was taken ill, and that his speech and all other scheduled events, as well as his departure, will be postponed.”

“Right. I’ll set out with the guards now,” Dwalin says, beginning to leave. “If we split up we should be able to cover the entire city by noon.”

“No, Dwalin,” his brother tells him. “You and the other Erebor guards must remain at the Citadel, if we are to claim that Thorin is abed in this room.”

“But what of a search party?”

Balin thinks. “Send a few of the Tower Guards out to scour the city, but make it clear they are to be in plainclothes. I don’t want any suspicions raised, with the public or with Thorin.”

Dwalin nods. “Well, he won’t get far without someone recognizing him. He’s not exactly inconspicuous.”

Balin walks to the nightstand and lifts a silver hair clasp off the table, running his thumb over the angular design. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to get the second chapter up quickly in order to introduce both Thorin and Bilbo's POV and give you some interaction ASAP. (Also I had so much fun writing this part and couldn't wait to share it.)
> 
> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed.


	3. Chapter 3

Bilbo wakes with a terrible crick in his neck. At first he thinks he must have fallen asleep while reading, but when he finds no book in his lap and hears the ragged snores coming from his bed, he remembers the unusual predicament he’s found himself in.

He also remembers where he’s supposed to be this morning.

A bell is ringing in the tower of the Citadel, announcing the time. It’s what woke Bilbo up in the first place, and now, sitting up on the sofa, he counts the fourth chime. Four hours past sunrise. Ten o’clock, as they would say in the Shire. No matter how you phrase it, one thing is certain—he overslept.

Bilbo groans and puts his face in his hands, rubbing his tired eyes. Of course the prince won’t care one way or another whether he was there. What’s one missing hobbit in a crowd of hundreds of people? Gandalf, on the other hand, will be very disappointed.

He’d best get to the library and see if he can talk his way out of this.

There’s just the small problem of the stranger currently sleeping half-nude in his bed.

Bilbo approaches the dwarf quietly. He appears to have tossed and turned quite a bit in his sleep and is now lying on his stomach with the linens twisted around his feet. His face is turned towards Bilbo, his noble profile partly masked by his bare arm. Bilbo notices a dark tattoo wrapping around the swell of his bicep. It has a similar geometric design to the one on the edges of his tunic. Bilbo finds his gaze absentmindedly drifting down the dwarf’s muscled back, towards the band of his trousers, and then...

The dwarf lets out a snore so thunderous that Bilbo jumps back with a yelp.

Well. If not even his own terrible snoring—nor Bilbo’s embarrassing outburst—is enough to wake him, the hobbit decides he must be well and truly out. Out enough not to wake up and ransack the place before Bilbo returns, at least. It’s a risk, he knows, but he doesn’t have time this morning to coax the dwarf out of bed and through the door. And he still doesn’t know if the stranger even has a place to go once he’s left.

So Bilbo hurries into the washroom with a change of clothes. He may be acting a bit out of character as of late, but not enough to wear the same things two days in a row. When he’s dressed and ready to go, he gives a quick knock to the headboard to test the dwarf’s state of wakefulness. Upon receiving no response aside from the usual heavy breathing, he opens the door and slips out.

The dwarf’s presence is on his mind for the entirety of the walk to the library, as well as the long, slow climb up the winding, torch-lined staircase leading into it. He has no idea what he’s going to do when he returns. What if the dwarf wakes up with a clear head but can’t recall how he got there? Or what if he’s still sloppy and heavy-lidded, whatever potion he got into his system last night slow to wear off? Bilbo can’t quite determine what would be worse.

Upon reaching the main scroll room—a stuffy, claustrophobic place weighed down by dust—Bilbo spots Ori, one of the other scribes, sitting at a table sketching in a notebook. Ori is a dwarf, although he has very little in common with the one currently sleeping in Bilbo’s bed. His frame is slighter, his beard patchier, his clothing home-knitted and fraying at the seams.

Ori has a plate of scones resting beside his papers. Bilbo’s eyes are immediately drawn to them before he can so much as greet his fellow scribe with a good morning. Without a word, Ori lifts the plate and offers it to Bilbo.

“Thank you,” Bilbo exhales. “I haven’t eaten since last night’s dinner.” He chooses a scone and takes a significant bite. Bilberry. What would he do without Ori?

“He wants to see you,” Ori tells him, putting the plate down again, and his tone suggests what Bilbo fully expected but still hoped might not come true.

Bilbo nods, hurries to swallow, and walks past the stacks upon stacks of parchment and leather-bound volumes to where Gandalf usually sits. The wizard is currently hunched over a pile of scrolls, his pipe burning in his hand and his pointed grey hat thrown atop the nearby clutter.

Gandalf isn’t always in Minas Tirith. He occasionally dashes off on mysterious tasks, usually after seeming to find something significant in the library’s records and _aha_ ing triumphantly with no further explanation. They tend to keep him away for weeks at a time.

Bilbo would tell you it’s pure coincidence that his own attendance at the library drops significantly during those periods, but he would find it difficult to hide his frustration that there hasn’t been an _aha_ moment in quite some time.

“You’re late,” the wizard says now without looking up.

Bilbo peers over the edge of the table, which is too tall for him, like all the others in the library, and in fact like most tables in the city. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Bilbo Baggins,” Gandalf interrupts sternly, “I know this venture may not be all that you’d hoped, but I rather think it’s what you make of it.”

“I just thought,” Bilbo hurries to say before Gandalf can get any further into another one of his lectures, “that since I was attending the speech this morning, I wasn’t expected here until afterward.”

“The speech?”

“Yes, of course. I just left it,” Bilbo says as nonchalantly as possible, reaching to stick his thumbs in the pockets of his waistcoat only to discover that he failed to put it on in his rush to leave.

Gandalf narrows his eyes. “Ah, I see.”

“Very well-spoken gentleman, the prince. Had a lot of interesting things to say.”

“Did he?” Gandalf brings the stem of his pipe to his lips and sits back in his chair, an invitation for Bilbo to elaborate.

“Yes, he did.” Bilbo is wishing he’d spent the walk over thinking up a convincing lie rather than worrying about the very reason he’s late in the first place. “For instance, he spoke about friendliness between races.”

“Hmm? And what did he say about it?”

Bilbo pulls his words out of goodness knows where. “He thinks it’s very important, of course… because without friendliness between races, we wouldn’t be… Well, we wouldn’t be…”

“Friendly?” Gandalf wonders.

“Friendly. Yes. Precisely. Stole the words right out of my mouth.”

“Of course,” the wizard says with a closed-mouth smile, leaning forward. “I must say, it was very impressive for you to have heard the prince speak this morning.”

“Was it? Why is that?”

“Because he was taken ill last night and postponed his speech until tomorrow.” Gandalf produces a handwritten scroll announcing as much and slaps it onto the table.

Bilbo examines it for a moment. “Well,” he says eventually, “I suppose it’s a good thing I didn’t get out of bed, then.”

Gandalf does not appear to be amused. “Bilbo, this is hardly the time to be clever. I expected you would be enthusiastic to have an assignment outside the library for once. A chance to contribute something very important to this city’s records.”

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t intend for it to happen, but I was up rather late last night.”

“Playing conkers again?” Gandalf wonders, one eyebrow raised. “Have you not already emptied the pockets of every child in Minas Tirith?”

“Perhaps I wouldn’t have to gamble at conkers if a certain wizard paid me a living wage.”

“I provide you with more than enough. It’s hardly my fault you ran out of Bag End with no money.”

Bilbo sighs. It really is no use arguing with the old man. “Well, seeing as I didn’t actually miss anything important, I suppose I’ll just get back to my work from yesterday.”

“I expect you to be at the Citadel tomorrow morning,” Gandalf says to his retreating back.

“Yes, very well,” Bilbo replies over his shoulder, heading in the direction of another scone.

“Was he very angry?” Ori asks, already holding out the plate before Bilbo has even stopped walking.

“No more than usual,” Bilbo says between bites. “Give your brother my compliments on the baking,” he adds.

He begins to move away from the table, trying to decide what the best time would be to slip out and check on his guest, but he pauses when he sees the drawing. It’s sitting atop a pile of sketches beside Ori’s notebook, hooking him with an inky stare.

It couldn’t be. It absolutely couldn’t. And yet...

It’s most certainly him—the dwarf he took home last night. The long dark hair with a braid on either side of his head, those intense eyes, that striking nose. His beard is groomed and braided here, and he’s wearing much more expensive-looking garments, with fur around his collar, but Bilbo recognizes him immediately.

“Did you draw this?” he asks Ori, reaching over and picking it up for closer examination.

“Yes. Just a few days ago at the welcoming ceremony.”

Bilbo glances questioningly up from the page. “The welcoming ceremony?”

“For the prince,” Ori clarifies.

“Why did you draw him?”

“Because Gandalf asked me to,” Ori says, as if it should be obvious.

Bilbo furrows his brow. Why would Gandalf have asked Ori to draw this dwarf?

“But who is this?” he asks.

Ori huffs an incredulous laugh. “You’re having me on.”

Bilbo shakes his head, straight-faced.

Ori gapes at him. “That’s the prince.”

Bilbo coughs on whatever crumbs are lingering in his throat. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said he’s the prince.”

Bilbo takes another look at the drawing. Surely it can’t be. And yet...

“ _This_ is the Prince of Erebor?” he asks, pointing to the paper.

“Yes. Thorin, son of Thráin.”

“And this is exactly what he looks like?”

“Well, I’d like to think my drawing is accurate, although I couldn’t recreate every small detail, and he wasn’t very close.”

Bilbo stands staring at the parchment in silent awe.

The Prince of Erebor. He found the Prince of Erebor passed out on a street bench. He brought the Prince of Erebor back to his room with him. The Prince of Erebor is sleeping in his bed at this very moment.

Or at least he hopes he is.

“Is everything all right, Bilbo?” Ori wonders.

“What?” Bilbo drags himself away from his thoughts. “Oh, yes, Ori. Everything’s fine. Just fine. Do you mind if I borrow this?”

“I suppose, but what for?”

“I’ll let you know.”

Bilbo turns around and retraces his steps to Gandalf’s table, clutching the portrait tightly. An idea has begun to blossom in his mind, and he’d like to water it as soon as possible.

“What would it take for you to help me return to the Shire?” he asks as soon as he’s within speaking distance.

The wizard looks at him quizzically. “I beg your pardon?”

“You can’t expect me to stay here forever. I don’t have the resources to return on my own. So what would it take for you to consider my work here complete? What would I have to do for you to take me home?”

The wizard sets his pipe in a nearby dish and folds his hands together on the table. “Bilbo, I brought you here as much for your own benefit as for the benefit of the city. I needed assistance getting the records in order here for my own purposes, and being that you have in the past displayed a knowledge of and interest in the outside world that sets you apart from your kin, I brought you on as a scribe. But it wasn’t solely for that. There were many who could have helped. I saw in you a potential.”

“Gandalf,” Bilbo says impatiently. “Please come to the point.”

“I will provide you safe passage home when I feel you’ve lived up to that potential. To put it plainly, when you’ve contributed a new document to this library, not just a translation or a transcription of someone else’s experience, but a record of your own.”

Bilbo glances down at the drawing in his hand. _Well_ , he thinks, _it’s worth a shot_.

“Thank you, Gandalf,” he says, abruptly turning around and leaving the wizard to his confusion.

Bilbo hurries back over to Ori.

“Ori! Terribly sorry to bother you again, but would you happen to have any money I can borrow?”

“Bilbo, I can’t keep doing that. Dori said that—”

“Yes, I know, but this time I promise to repay you. All of it, and more.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t want to say anything until I’m certain.”

Ori takes a moment to consider before reaching into his pocket. “Fine. But you’d better not be lying.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Bilbo assures him, accepting the money and heading for the stairs.

* * *

Thorin wakes to a voice above him. It sounds garbled and distant. He thinks perhaps he’s still dreaming.

He groans and rolls over, seeking the cooler part of the pillow.

“Your highness?” the voice seems to be saying, clearer this time. It’s familiar, but he can’t place it. He can’t place much of anything right now.

“What is it?” Thorin mumbles.

“How are you feeling?” the voice asks, and Thorin wonders what it means.

Then he starts to remember. He was very upset last night, wasn’t he? Upset with Balin. He wanted to run away. Óin gave him something to fall asleep. Óin. That must be who’s asking. He’s come to check on him.

“Óin,” Thorin says, turning onto his back but keeping his eyes closed, “that concoction of yours gave me the strangest dreams.”

“Oh? And what would those be?”

“I ran away. I was out on my own, with no guard. No one knew who I was. But I was very tired. I fell asleep in the street, and I met the strangest elf child. He was so cruel to me.”

“I beg your pardon,” someone retorts, “I am neither an elf nor a child, and I would hardly call it cruel to let you sleep all night in my bed.”

Thorin’s eyes burst open.

The first thing he sees is a crack in the ceiling. He doesn’t remember it being there. He remembers stone kings. Where have they gone?

Perhaps more importantly, who is speaking to him?

Thorin turns his gaze to the side of the bed, where a very unusual creature is leaning over him. It’s the elf child from his dream, he realizes. He’s small and beardless, with pointed ears and light hair. Except he just said he isn’t an elf child. So what could he possibly be? Thorin’s mind suddenly flashes to very large, very hairy feet.

At once, Thorin straightens up and attempts to step out of bed. Unfortunately, his feet entangle themselves in the sheets, and he falls bodily to the floor. The creature stares at him from the opposite side of the mattress as he kicks the sheets away and scrambles to his feet.

Once he’s up, he reaches to his hip to draw his sword, only to realize it isn’t there. Desperate, he grabs the first object he sees that could be used as a weapon—a candlestick sitting on the bedside table. The candle that was resting upon it, thankfully unlit, travels airborne across the room and bounces against the wall with a dull thud.

He wields the object as threateningly as possible—which isn’t very.

“Oh, there’s no need for that,” the creature says frantically, hands raised. “I mean you no harm.”

Thorin glances around the room. It’s small and simple and definitely not his bedchamber.

“Where am I?” he asks.

“This is my room.”

Thorin’s eyes widen, and he fears the worst. “Did you kidnap me?” he asks.

“Kidnap you?” the creature laughs incredulously, but then just as quickly his face falls. “Hmm,” he says, as if he’d never looked at it that way before.

Thorin tenses, raising the candlestick higher.

“No, no, I didn’t kidnap you,” the creature rushes to assure him.  “Would you please put that down? It’s making me nervous.”

“Where is Óin?” Thorin demands, ignoring his request.

“I’m afraid I don’t know who that is,” the creature replies.

“Wasn’t I just talking to him?”

The creature shakes his head.

He must still be dreaming, he decides. Except this doesn’t feel like a dream. But that would mean that everything that happened last night was real. Why can’t he remember how he got here?

“Have I been injured?” he asks, bringing one hand to his head. Perhaps he knocked it against something.

“No,” the creature says. “At least, not unless you count walking face-first into the side of the building. Nothing serious,” he adds when he sees Thorin’s expression.

It’s as he’s assessing the rest of his body for wounds that Thorin realizes his chest is bare. “Where is my tunic?” he asks.

“It’s right here, on the floor,” the creature responds, bending over to pick it up and reaching across the bed, which is still between them, to hand it over.

Thorin snatches it from him and pulls it hurriedly over his head—not an easy feat with the candlestick still in his hand. “Did you take it off me?” he asks, voice muffled by fabric.

“I most certainly did not,” the creature snaps as Thorin resumes his defensive stance. He sighs, more exasperated than fearful at this point. “You seem rather confused, so perhaps I can explain all of this to you. May I sit down?” He motions to the sofa.

Thorin nods, watching the creature closely as he steps across the room and settles almost weightlessly on the cushion.

“I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression,” he says. “It’s just that I’m not much accustomed to letting strangers sleep in my bed. Or anyone, for that matter. But that’s hardly the point.” The creature appears very flustered all of a sudden. “The point is, I only wanted to help you find your way home, but you wouldn’t tell me where you lived, so I brought you back here. I thought you had better get off the street before something happened to you. You were in quite the state.”

Thorin stares at him.

Oh, no.

Well, this is embarrassing. It would probably be best if, in the future, he refrains from shirking his princely responsibilities after being administered one of Óin’s concoctions.

Beginning to have a clearer understanding of the situation, Thorin lowers the candlestick but maintains his grip on it, suspicion slow to shake off.

“May I ask,” he says, for it is puzzling him, “what you are?”

“ _What_ I am? Well, I’m a hobbit.”

Thorin exhales, immensely relieved. He’s heard about hobbits—gentle folk who live in the West and prefer trowels to swords. He’s never met one before now, but he imagines if there’s anyone he’d prefer to be kidnapped by, it’s a hobbit. Only, it sounds like he wasn’t kidnapped at all.

Yes, this is very embarrassing.

Thorin slowly places the candlestick back on the table.

The hobbit, apparently encouraged enough by Thorin’s laying down of arms, stands up and approaches him. “My name is Bilbo,” he says. “Bilbo Baggins.”

He extends his hand. Thorin looks at it for a moment before finally reaching out to grasp it. It’s soft and small, but stronger than he would have imagined.

“What’s your name?” Bilbo asks, pulling away and retreating back to the sofa.

Thorin very nearly tells him his entire title before biting his tongue. This hobbit doesn’t appear to know who he is. Perhaps he really did have good intentions bringing him home. If Thorin keeps him unaware, he can stay out, explore the city. He hasn’t been caught.

He just has to come up with a false name.

During a frantic glance around the room for inspiration, his gaze settles on a painting hanging on the wall over Bilbo’s head. It depicts a green hill with a magnificent oak tree growing out of it.

“Oaken,” Thorin blurts.

“Oaken?” Bilbo repeats.

Thorin nods. It sounds dwarvish enough, doesn’t it?

When Bilbo doesn’t question it any further, he decides it does.

“Well, Oaken, now that you seem to be in a clearer state of mind, what do you say to breakfast? Or rather, I suppose it’s nearly lunch time by now, isn’t it?”

“Lunch time?” Thorin can’t help but shout.

“Is there somewhere you need to be?”

That’s an excellent question, isn’t it? Thorin supposes the answer is yes. He’s needed to be in a lot of places already today, with several more waiting for him later. But rather, those were places he was needed. Where he _needs_ to be, really needs for himself, he hasn’t yet determined.

“Yes,” he decides, “in a way.”

He begins searching around the room for his boots.

“You’re leaving already?” Bilbo asks, standing up again. He sounds surprisingly disappointed at the prospect considering Thorin very nearly attacked him with a candlestick a few moments ago.

“I must,” Thorin replies, finding a single boot beside the sofa.

“But you haven’t eaten anything all day.”

Yes, Thorin’s stomach is making that abundantly clear at the moment.

“I can’t stay,” he tells the hobbit resolutely, crouching down to discover that his other boot has somehow made its way under the bed.

“At least let me walk with you to wherever it is you’re going.”

Thorin sits on the edge of the mattress and pulls the boots on. They’re still just as filthy as the day before, he notes. “I can find the place,” Thorin answers, although he’s not entirely sure what place he’s even talking about.

When his boots are on and his tunic is tied and tucked into his trousers, he stands uncertainly in front of his new acquaintance. “I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you,” he tells him. “And for…” He gestures vaguely at the candlestick.

Bilbo waves it off. “Not to worry.”

“Thank you very much for allowing me the use of your bed,” Thorin adds. “It was very generous of you to choose to sleep on the sofa.”

Bilbo glances at the sofa with an unusual expression. “It was no trouble,” he eventually says.

There is an awkward pause.

“Well, I suppose I’ll go now,” Thorin says to break it. “Thank you again, Master Baggins.”

He bows, a decision he immediately regrets, remembering that Bilbo had merely shaken his hand before. Perhaps bowing is seen as too formal among hobbits. Formal enough to raise suspicion.

Bilbo doesn’t seem fazed by it, however. “You’re welcome,” he says quietly.

And with that, Thorin is out the door, down the steps, across the courtyard, and about to walk through the gate into the alley beyond. It’s only now that he realizes he has no money, no idea where he is, and no plan for where to go from here.

At the very least, he feels well-rested.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's just unofficially title this chapter "Prince Thorin in Minas Tirith With the Candlestick." :P
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

Bilbo paces the room, hands once again reaching in vain for the pockets of his missing waistcoat.

Well, that didn’t go as well as he’d hoped.

He wasn’t certain exactly how he was going to handle it, having been in such a hurry to make sure the dwarf was still where he’d left him, and that he was indeed the prince. Bilbo feels certain of the last part now, but unfortunately finding the dwarf where he left him was no guarantee that he would stay there.

 _Oaken_ , he called himself. Bilbo scoffs. He was probably staring at that painting of Bag End that Ori did for him. Bilbo had described it to him from memory, and it had turned out to be much more accurate than he’d expected, although he still thinks the shade of green on the door isn’t quite right.

He’d like to see Bag End again, but sadly he fears his only chance to do so just walked out the door.

Bilbo glances at the painting, at the detail on the oak leaves.

This is unacceptable.

The next thing he knows, he’s racing down the steps, through the courtyard and towards the gate, planning to catch up with Thorin on the city streets and pretend it’s just a coincidence. As it turns out, Bilbo really does run into Thorin—quite literally, and much sooner than he expected.

As he pushes through the gate and into the adjoining alley, he soon finds himself pressed against a wall of chest as Thorin approaches from the other direction. The impact may very well have sent Bilbo collapsing to the ground, if not for Thorin grabbing him by the arms to steady him.

“Terribly sorry,” Bilbo says, straightening his jacket and looking up at Thorin. As grateful as he is that he didn’t have to look far, he is wondering what the dwarf is still doing here, and walking back towards Bilbo’s room, no less. “Did you forget something?”

Thorin opens his mouth to speak before lowering his head in silence, as if he’s too ashamed to say.

It’s then that Bilbo remembers something Thorin said to him last night.

“Do you need money?” he asks, reaching into his pocket for some of what Ori lent him. He’s none too eager to part with it, but if it can help him gain the dwarf’s trust, it’s worth it.

Thorin, fists by his sides, looks at the coins in Bilbo’s hand. He shakes his head, and it’s as if he’s telling himself no just as much as he’s telling Bilbo. “I don’t wish to take anything more from you,” he says.

“It’s no trouble at all,” Bilbo assures him. “I’m not as poor as I look.”

Thorin glances at him doubtfully. Oh, that’s very nice—being judged by a prince.

“Really,” Bilbo insists, “I can spare it.”

When Thorin still doesn’t accept the money, Bilbo reaches for one of Thorin’s hands, placing the coins in his palm and closing his sturdy fingers around it.

“There,” he says, returning his own hands to the straps of his braces. “Have it.”

Thorin nods yieldingly. “Thank you.”

He watches Thorin place the coins in the pocket of his trousers before turning his head and looking behind him uncertainly. The main street is bustling with the usual midday crowd, their activity filtering down to a dull buzz in the secluded alley.

“Are you certain you don’t need any help getting where you’re going?” Bilbo wonders.

Thorin turns abruptly to face him again. “Oh, no. I’ll be fine. Thank you again for the money.”

And with that he takes off in the direction of the street. Bilbo watches him as he goes, sees him pause at the end of the alley. After glancing left and right at least three times each, Thorin finally settles for right, disappearing around the corner.

The second he’s out of sight, Bilbo jogs to the end of the alley himself and scans the crowd. The street is busy, and considering both he and Thorin are considerably shorter in stature than the majority of Minas Tirith’s inhabitants, spotting him is rather like one valley trying to see the next.

Thankfully there is space enough between people that he can see a head of long black hair moving away towards the marketplace. Bilbo hurries to push his way through the crowd and follow him. He receives more than one hair ruffle from well-meaning passersby who miss him coming, treading on his toes and assuming he’s a child in their hurried confusion. It’s not his favorite part of living in Minas Tirith. Not that he even has a favorite part to begin with.

Bilbo hopes that Thorin is indeed heading for the marketplace, because he can no longer see him through the throng. He keeps walking in that direction, wondering if this is the end—if his prince, his ticket out of this dreadful city, has disappeared for good, and his money along with it. Well, Ori’s money. He supposes he’ll have to find a way to pay him back for that.

Bilbo wanders through the marketplace trying to imagine the first thing a dwarf prince would want to eat after hours without a meal. He passes the butcher’s tent and discovers only an increased appetite. (He would very much like a few strips of bacon right now.) The baker’s table gives him a rumbling stomach, but no dwarf. Even the produce cart proves the opposite of fruitful, pardon the wordplay.

Just when Bilbo is about to accept his search as hopeless, he spots a familiar pair of broad shoulders nearby in the clothing section. He squints to confirm that yes, it is Thorin. He’s kneeling, focused on something near to the ground, but he’s faced away so Bilbo can’t see. A vendor is standing over him. As Thorin straightens up to hand the man a coin, Bilbo realizes what he was doing.

On his feet are short, laced boots, a common style among the men of Minas Tirith.

Bilbo gapes.

 _Shoes?_ Bilbo gave him money out of his own pocket, and he’s buying _shoes_?

He already has shoes, albeit filthy ones. He certainly doesn’t need to buy new ones. Considering Bilbo doesn’t think twice about shoes himself, having no need for them, this revelation is particularly disturbing.

Surely food should take priority in this situation. If Bilbo could afford it, he’d have already eaten four hearty meals today. He’s learned from firsthand experience that such frequent eating is entirely uncommon outside of the Shire, but he imagines the dwarf must be hungry by this time of day, especially if he’s used to so many princely feasts—or so Bilbo assumes from what he’s read about royalty.

Bilbo’s gaze follows Thorin as he steps away from the shoe seller and moves further into the marketplace. He’s just taken the first step to follow him when he finds himself face-to-face with a rusty belt buckle.

It belongs to a man with a smile that’s entirely too big for his face. He’s selling pumpkins from a wagon, and his stock appears depressingly full for this time of day.

“Hullo, little master! How are you on this fine afternoon?”

“Yes, hello,” Bilbo says distractedly, craning his neck to see around the man.

“Could I interest you in a pumpkin? They’ve just come in this morning.”

A large pumpkin, perfectly round and admittedly very appealing, enters Bilbo’s field of vision just as he spots Thorin rounding the corner of the textile stall.

“No, thank you,” he tells the vendor. “Excuse me, I really must be on my way.”

Bilbo attempts to pass him, but the man just moves to block him again, chipper as ever. “I’ll give you a good price.”

Bilbo’s politeness is hanging by a thread. “Really, I’m not interested.” He steps to the side only to find himself blocked by another shopper.

The vendor is relentless. “Oh, come now, have one. I won’t take no for an answer.”

Well, if that’s how it’s going to be...

“Oh, very well,” Bilbo huffs, and grabs the pumpkin from the vendor’s hands before pushing forcefully past him. He hears the man shout in shock and outrage after him, but he doesn’t turn back.

He hurries through the crowd in the direction he saw Thorin move, but there’s no sign of him. He feels as if he’s searching for him through a dense forest, but in place of trees there are people. Not much of a difference there, he’s found.

Bilbo reaches the other side of the marketplace with no luck. The crowd has thinned significantly on this section of the street, but he doesn’t see Thorin anywhere. He could have entered one of the permanent shops, but there’s no telling which one, and Bilbo is in no mood to be harassed by yet another seller he has no intention of buying from.

So he stands deflated on the cobblestone, catching his breath.

He’s lost the prince, and he’s just stolen a pumpkin.

Splendid.

______________________

Thorin should be hungry. He knows this. And yet the rush of being out on his own in an unfamiliar city, with no one having recognized or questioned him, is all he can focus on. He feels no rumble in his stomach, only the rapid beating of his heart as he moves through the bustling marketplace. He doesn’t know where he is or where he’s going, but none of that matters now. The very fact that he even has a choice in the matter is good enough for him.

He bought the boots not only because the pair he’d been wearing was filthy, but because he thought that perhaps wearing them would make him feel closer to the city he’s set out to explore. He imagines himself as just another Gondorian citizen, if slightly shorter in stature.

Yet he feels like there is still something to be done, some royal veil he needs to cast off to truly meld with the masses. He realizes what that something is as soon as he spots a swinging metal sign welded into the shape of scissors. Below it, a man of middle age sporting a close-shorn beard exits a shop.

Thorin passes through the stone doorway without a second thought.

Imagine his surprise when, inside, he discovers a fellow dwarf. He’s a stocky fellow in wine-colored garments with grey hair twisted into ornate plaits around his head. He’s faced away from Thorin, sweeping clumps of hair out from beneath a chair at the back of the small shop.

Thorin panics. A dwarf may be more likely to recognize him, or at least to realize that he’s not as anonymous as he claims to be. Just as he’s about to sneak away from the shop without being seen, the grey-haired dwarf spots him in the large framed mirror propped against the far wall.

“Welcome!” he greets, stilling his broom and turning around. Thorin notices that his beard is as intricately braided as the hair on his head. “Isn’t this a pleasant surprise! Haven’t seen a dwarf in here in weeks. Unless you count my own reflection,” he adds with a chuckle.

Thorin hovers uncertainly by the door.

“I’ll be with you in just a moment,” the barber tells him, returning to his sweeping. “My name is Dori. What can I call you?”

“Oaken,” Thorin tells him, not in the mood to search the room for new inspiration.

“That’s quite an unusual name,” Dori remarks. “Where are you from, if I may ask?”

Thorin freezes. He really should have planned for these questions.

He settles for a vague “Here and there.”

“Ah, I see,” Dori replies knowingly, placing the broom in the corner. “I’ve got a brother like you. Durin knows where he is right now. Probably holed up in a cave somewhere with goblins. He’s a menace, that one. A tarnish on the family name.”

Dori appears to be growing agitated. Thorin isn’t quite sure how to respond.

“Well, no matter,” Dori says. “Have a seat. It’ll be nice not to use the step stool for once today. I presume someone told you about my braid work.”

“Braid work?” Thorin wonders as he settles—or rather climbs—into the chair.

“Braid work,” Dori repeats, gesturing proudly to his own intricately woven hair and beard. “I don’t imagine you’re here for a cut.” He says it with a laughing tone, but when Thorin doesn’t reciprocate, his face becomes grim. “Indeed?”

Thorin nods. “Just the beard,” he clarifies. He’s prepared to defy tradition, but not to travel quite so far beyond its borders.

“Well, how much then?” Dori asks. He grabs a comb from his supply table and combs it through Thorin’s beard, stopping a miniscule distance from the end. “Here?”

Thorin shakes his head. “Shorter.”

Dori adjusts the comb ever so slightly.

“Shorter,” Thorin repeats.

This goes on two more times, with Dori growing gradually more and more scandalized, until Thorin decides to save time by telling him plainly, “I want it all off. To the chin. Like the man who was here before me.”

Dori reacts as if Thorin just asked him to chop his head off his shoulders. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am,” Thorin says firmly. “I’ll ask that you please refrain from questioning me any further and proceed with my request.”

He nearly cringes at his reflexive regality, but it gets Dori to stop talking, so he supposes it was worth it.

Dori drapes a cloth over Thorin’s front to cover his clothing, and then he fastens the hair of his beard together with a clasp. Thorin watches him make the first cut in the mirror. The barber sucks in his breath so sharply as the scissors snip that Thorin thinks he must have injured himself.

When the hair falls away from his chin and into Dori’s palm, his heart sinks at sight of the scraggly strands that have been left behind. This doesn’t look right at all.

“Will you be trimming this?” Thorin asks, running his fingers through what remains.

Dori, who is standing pale-faced and breathless as he examines the bundle of dark hair in his hand, nods. “Half a moment, please,” he says, placing it reverently on the table before returning to his work.

The barber’s head blocks Thorin’s view of the mirror until he’s finished, and with each cut he wonders if he’s made the right decision. What would his father think of it? Or his grandfather, were he alive?

The barber wipes his brow as if he’s just finished a bout of smithing. “Finished,” he says, setting the scissors back on the table. He steps away from Thorin to let him assess the results of his labor in the mirror.

Whatever guilt Thorin was feeling washes away as soon as he sees himself. He looks very much the same as he did before, and yet somehow everything’s changed. The dwarf staring back at him from the mirror doesn’t look like a prince, and that excites him.

It seems to excite Dori as well. Or, at least, something does. Perhaps he’s simply proud of his own work, because he gazes at Thorin’s reflection with a grin. “I must say, that looks much better than I expected. What do you think?”

Thorin can barely find the words. “It’s very good,” he says.

“I’m very pleased to hear it,” Dori says, and he seems it. In fact, the barber has been staring at him for so long now and with such enthusiasm that Thorin is beginning to feel uncomfortable.

“How much do I owe you?” he finally thinks to ask. He realizes that perhaps he should have verified the price _before_ he had his beard lopped off at the chin. Master Baggins was very generous with his money, but it may not be enough.

“Hmm?” Dori responds, dragging himself from whatever dreamland exists for him in the mirror. “Oh, don’t worry about it. It’s free of charge, from one dwarf to another.”

Thorin knows he should be grateful that now he’s free to spend his remaining money on something else—like food, his stomach would be quick to suggest. But it feels wrong not to pay, as if he’s still being treated like royalty, handed things left and right simply for the good fortune of his birth. “I’d really like to pay,” he tells the barber.

“Nonsense, I insist,” Dori persists. “Although,” he adds, a thought seeming to occur to him, “if you really are intent on paying me back, there might be a way.”

Thorin narrows his eyes. He’s not sure he wants to hear the barber’s suggestion.

“There’s to be a party tonight,” Dori continues, oblivious. “Music, drinking, plenty of food. It’s on the banks of the Anduin, outside the city. Would be nice to see another dwarf there. Would you come?”

Thorin is immediately reminded of the gathering he heard from his window last night. He would very much like to experience a celebration where he’s not sitting on a dais or at the head of a table. To be not a guest of honor, but simply a guest, expected to do nothing but eat and drink and discuss things other than trade relations—he can think of nothing he’d rather do.

And yet, by the time this evening arrives, things could be very different. Balin and the rest of them won’t dare leave the city until he’s been found, and that’s likely to happen sooner rather than later, no matter how successful he’s been at disguising himself. He really only meant to sneak away for a few hours. That’s all changed now, it would seem.

“Perhaps,” he tells Dori, for he truly hates to rule out the possibility entirely.

“Please do consider it,” Dori urges him. “It’s sure to be an excellent time. Oh, would you like me to put some braids in your hair before you go?”

“No, thank you. I should be on my way.” He removes the cloth covering his chest and steps out of the chair, giving a short bow before making his way to the entrance.

“I don’t suppose anyone will recognize you,” Dori says to him, and Thorin turns.

“No,” he replies. “I don’t suppose they will.”

______________

Bilbo sits dejectedly on a set of crumbling steps not far from his room, stolen pumpkin at his feet. He’s spent an hour wandering up and down the streets trying to spot Thorin, with no luck. He can hardly believe the opportunity that just slipped through his fingers. The key to finding his way home, to leaving this cold stone city behind, stumbled into his room and crawled under his covers last night, and now it’s gone.

If he’d realized the dwarf was a prince when he first found him lying there on the bench, things could be very different now. With enough time to formulate a plan, he could have had Thorin comfortably in his pocket by now, showing him around the city and gathering anecdotes and information enough to fill an entire tome for the library.

If only he’d recognized him as more than just an anonymous dwarf wandering the streets, like that short-bearded one walking past just now.

Bilbo’s eyes widen.

Oh.

_Oh!_

He stands up so quickly he nearly trips over his pumpkin. He knows he’s probably better off without the bright orange proof of his thievery in his arms, but it pains him to waste the thing, so, grumbling, he picks it up and carries it with him.

Down the narrow street he runs, hurrying after Thorin, who has apparently squandered even more of his generously offered money on a beard trim. He makes certain not to get too close to the dwarf, lest he suspect Bilbo of following him. Never mind that he is; Thorin doesn’t need to know that.

He sees Thorin stop at a small cart selling candied nuts. Well, he could have chosen something better than sweets, but at least he’s buying food. Bilbo watches Thorin from around the corner of a nearby building until he sees him depart the cart with a bag of sugared almonds in hand, heading for a nearby bench.

This is the moment. Bilbo takes a deep breath and strolls towards Thorin as casually as possible, making sure not to look in his direction until the last moment.

“Well, isn’t this a surprise!” he exclaims.

Thorin appears startled at first, but when he sees who it is addressing him he relaxes a bit. He greets Bilbo with an amiable nod.

“Would you look at that,” Bilbo says, gesturing to his own chin. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”

“Do you think it odd?” Thorin asks nervously.

“Oh no, not at all. It suits you very well, in fact.” For one of the first times in their brief acquaintance, he doesn’t have to stretch the truth. Thorin looks splendid with a close-shorn beard, and goodness knows it would make for an excellent story detail. He only wishes Ori were here to draw a new portrait.

Thorin appears very relieved by Bilbo’s compliment. This is going swimmingly so far. He just needs to keep it that way.

“May I?” Bilbo asks, motioning to the empty space on the bench. Thorin nods, so he takes a seat.

Thorin glances questioningly at the pumpkin he places between them. “It’s a long story,” Bilbo explains, and Thorin doesn’t question it any further.

“Would you like some?” the dwarf asks after a moment, holding out the bag.

It’s embarrassing how quickly Bilbo reaches to grab a handful. He’s positively famished.

“So,” Bilbo begins once he’s swallowed the first morsel, “I take it the barber’s shop was the mysterious appointment you had to rush off to earlier?”

Thorin looks guiltily into what’s left of the almonds. “Master Baggins, I have something to confess.”

Oh, dear. All this time Bilbo has been worried about revealing his own knowledge of Thorin’s identity, but he’s hardly prepared for a confession from the prince himself. He isn’t sure whether this will be better or worse for his plan. “What is it?” he asks innocently.

“I ran away last night,” Thorin says, still not looking at Bilbo.

“Oh? From where?”

“From my duties,” Thorin responds carefully. “My duties to my… my family. We traveled to the city for work. But I was tired of work, so I ran. I’m afraid I have very bad timing, because I had just been given something to help me sleep.”

“Ah,” Bilbo says understandingly. So that’s what all that talk of doctors and dreaming had been. He did find it unusual that Thorin didn’t seem to have drink on his breath the previous night. “So you wanted to have an adventure.”

Thorin looks up then. “Yes, I suppose you could say that. I couldn’t stand to be in a city such as this and spend it working. I only wanted a few hours to myself. They’re sure to be looking for me now. I suppose I should return.”

Bilbo, panicked, blurts, “But have you done everything you wanted to do?”

Thorin gives him a curious look. “What do you mean?”

“Did you have your adventure? Or is there more you want to do before it’s over? You can still do all of it. You _should_ do all of it. Now’s your chance. You may never get another one.”

 _I may never get another one either_ , Bilbo adds in his head.

Thorin furrows his brow. “Well, I suppose there is one thing...”

“What is it?”

“There’s an inn here. On the first level of the city.”

“The Old Guesthouse,” Bilbo supplies.

“Yes, that one. I passed it when I arrived, and I wished I could visit, have a drink or two.”

“Let’s go, then,” Bilbo says.

Thorin raises his eyebrows. “Both of us? But don’t you have things to do?”

“I’m taking the day off,” Bilbo declares, standing up. “Today I’m your personal Minas Tirith guide. Wherever you want to go, whatever you want to see, I’ll take you there. We’ll do everything you want to do. It’ll be an adventure.”

Thorin stares at him silently then, his expression unreadable. Bilbo begins to think he may have officially stuck his foot in it. He’s gone too far. Thorin has caught on to his motives, and he’ll flee. Or worse, he’ll get his royal guards to punish him. He hadn’t considered that possibility.

Before Bilbo has time to be terrified, however, Thorin responds. “You’d do that?” he asks, and his voice is far less suspicious than Bilbo expected. Instead, he sounds mostly... awed.

“Yes, of course. I could use an adventure myself, to tell you the truth. We’ll make a day of it. What say you to that?”

Gradually, Thorin’s face breaks into a wide smile, and my goodness, that is quite the sight—he really must find Ori. “Very well,” Thorin says, and stands to join him. “Let’s have an adventure.”


	5. Chapter 5

It’s just past lunch time when they arrive at the Old Guesthouse, but plenty of people still crowd both the pub and the greensward outside, reluctant to return to work. There are several children playing on the grass, including, Bilbo notes, the taller boy who accompanied his conkers opponent the previous night.

The boy spots Bilbo as he and Thorin approach the inn, and he rushes over with a smile. “Mr. Bilbo!”

“Baranor!” Bilbo greets. “Nice to see you.”

Baranor, upon glimpsing Bilbo’s companion, seems to remember something. “Oh, Mr. Bilbo, did you get to see the pr—” he begins, but Bilbo cuts him off before he can finish.

“Baranor, my lad! How would you like a pumpkin?”

The boy squints. “A pumpkin?”

“Yes, a pumpkin. Here you are. Doesn’t that look lovely? I’m sure your mother will make something excellent with it. Save a few seeds for me, won’t you?”

Baranor looks very confused, but he accepts the pumpkin nonetheless.

“That’s a good lad,” Bilbo tells him. “Now run along back to your friends.”

Baranor glances back and forth between Bilbo and Thorin more than once before finally turning around, pumpkin in hand, and rejoining his playmates.

“What was he going to ask you?” Thorin wonders as they resume their walk up the inn’s front steps.

“Oh, just children’s silliness. Nothing important.”

“You must know quite a lot of people in this city, if even the children know you by name,” Thorin remarks.

“I’m not nearly as popular as it may seem,” Bilbo explains. “Being a hobbit in these parts, the children are some of the only ones who don’t look down on me—quite literally. They’re also the only ones who play conkers.”

“Conkers?” Thorin questions.

“Dwarves don’t play conkers? Well, I suppose I’ll have to teach you, then. But first, a drink. Let’s find a table.”

They’ve entered the pub, a cosy establishment that reminds Bilbo very much of the Green Dragon back home, if only the patrons were shorter and the ale Shire-brewed. The place is clouded in pipe smoke and the sound of belly laughs. Maneuvering past the city’s residents is difficult enough when they haven’t been drinking; in here it’s near impossible.

They eventually manage to secure a small table in the corner. Thorin is just tall enough that his boots reach the floor when he sits, although the edge of the table comes much closer to his chin than it’s meant to. Bilbo has become quite accustomed to having his feet swing well above the floor in every chair he sits on, although he wouldn’t say he enjoys it.

As they settle into their seats, Bilbo notices Thorin glancing nervously about the room, as if any moment someone will grab him by the collar and drag him back to his royal duties. The hobbit hopes as much as he does that such a thing won’t happen. Their fates are tied together now, it would seem.

“What would you like to drink?” Bilbo asks, forcing Thorin to look somewhere besides the corner of his eye.

“What do you recommend?”

“Well, the wine is quite good here, although it’s nothing like back home. I wish I could pour you a glass of the Old Winyard. Now _that’s_ a wine. There’s nothing like it outside the Shire.”

Thorin blinks at him.

“But, like I said,” Bilbo says, clearing his throat, “the wine here is just fine.”

“I’ll have that, then,” Thorin decides.

Bilbo sits up to catch the barman’s eye, which is easier said than done at his height. The man, a red-faced fellow with a rumpled apron, is eventually coaxed over, a plate of bread in hand. As soon as he places it on the table, Bilbo has to practically sit on his hands to keep from grabbing a piece.

“What can I get for you gentlemen?” the barman asks.

“Wine for him,” Bilbo requests, before surreptitiously reaching into his pocket to assess how much he has left. Perhaps he should have recommended something more affordable. But then again, when will he ever have another chance to dine with a prince? “And I’ll just have a cup of tea, I think.”

It’s getting close to that time, in any case. Or at least it would be, in decent places.

“Do you drink wine very often?” Bilbo asks to break the uncomfortable silence that settles between them when the barman leaves.

“Mostly on special occasions,” Thorin replies. “Last time it was for my father’s… anniversary.”

“Wedding anniversary?” Bilbo asks, already starting on his second piece of bread.

“No.” Thorin looks as if he’s struggling with how to continue. “It was for the anniversary of when he received his job.”

“Oh? What line of work is he in?” Bilbo would admit to only himself how amusing it is to watch Thorin wrack his brain for lies.

“It’s mostly trade and the like.”

“Ah, that sounds very interesting. And you work with him?”

“Yes. Although my job isn’t nearly as important as his.”

“Will you take over for him one day? When he retires?”

“Retires?” Thorin echoes with a furrowed brow, as if he’s already forgotten the imaginary scenario they’re discussing. “Oh, yes. I suppose I will. Although it’s very rare for a dwarf with his job to retire. So it will be some time before I replace him.”

“Enough time for adventures,” Bilbo says with a tap to the side of his nose.

Thorin smiles. “Yes. I suppose so.”

The barman brings their drinks then. Bilbo takes a sip of his tea and winces. He still hasn’t learned to enjoy the weaker blends Minas Tirith has to offer. But it distracts him from how hungry he is, so he drinks it.

Thorin at least seems to be enjoying his wine. He’s looking around the room again between sips, but instead of paranoia, there is interest in his eye. To think that enjoying a mediocre drink in an inn full of strangers would provide such a thrill. Bilbo supposes Thorin has lived quite a sheltered existence indeed.

He scoffs to himself. Sheltered in luxury, to be more precise. He’ll be itching to return to his riches and his royal feasts in no time.

Eventually Thorin’s gaze returns to Bilbo. “What do you do for work?” he asks.

“Oh, I’m a…” He trails off. Being the one to think up the lies isn’t nearly as fun as being witness to them.

Saying he’s a scribe isn’t terribly suspicious, but he’d like to be as careful as possible. None of the paintings on the wall are providing any inspiration, so he’s forced to look for ideas out the small window over Thorin’s head.  A cart is moving away from the inn carrying barrels.

It’ll have to do, Bilbo decides, before declaring that he’s “a barrel-rider.”

“Barrel-rider?” Thorin clarifies.

“Yes,” Bilbo confirms. Now he just has to decide what on earth a barrel-rider is. “I ride on the backs of the barrel carts around the city to make sure nothing falls off.”

This is the worst idea he has ever had. Why didn’t he properly prepare for these questions?

“Oh,” Thorin replies, appearing to ruminate on the concept. “Well, I suppose that makes sense, considering your size.”

“Yes!” Bilbo nearly shouts, for Thorin has somehow managed to make his lie sound at least somewhat convincing. “That’s exactly right.”

Thorin seems pleased enough with this explanation and goes back to sipping his wine. Bilbo meanwhile takes a sizable gulp of his tea in an attempt to loosen the knot in his stomach.

“Bilbo!” he hears a familiar voice shout from nearby, and he glances up to discover Ori walking towards them, his worn leather bag, which he uses to carry his sketchbook and supplies, hanging by his side. Bilbo is somehow both relieved and terrified to see him.

“Good afternoon, Ori,” he greets nonchalantly, setting his teacup down.

“Bilbo, where have you been?” Ori asks as he arrives at the table. “I’ve been sent to look for you.”

“Oh, I’ve taken the day off. I’m spending it with my new friend here. Oaken.”

Ori shifts his gaze from Bilbo to his tablemate, and it’s a miracle his eyes don’t fall out of his head on the spot. “Oaken?” he repeats.

“Yes. _Oaken_ ,” Bilbo confirms. “Oaken, this is Ori. We work together.”

Apparently Ori is a barrel-rider as well now.

“Hello,” Ori says in stunned greeting.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Thorin says, and oh dear, he’s back to looking paranoid. This had better go smoothly.

“Pardon me, but has anyone ever told you that you’re a ringer for—”

That didn’t last long.

Before Ori can finish his sentence, Bilbo is very purposely knocking his teacup off the table. Its contents splash onto Ori’s tunic before it shatters at his feet, and he jumps back in surprise.

“Oh no, look what I’ve done!” Bilbo exclaims, standing up and grabbing Ori by the shoulder. “I’m sorry, Ori. Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we? I think I saw a water pump outside. If you’ll excuse us, Oaken.”

Thorin looks after them in confusion as the barman hurries over to clean up the mess.

“Bilbo, what is going on?” Ori says as he’s dragged out the door and onto the inn’s front stoop. “That’s the prince!”

“I know it’s the prince! Why else do you think I’m sitting there having a drink with him?”

Ori squints. “But you called him Oaken.”

“Yes, because that’s what he wants me to think his name is.”

The squint evolves into a pair of eyebrows raised so high they nearly reach the ragged ends of Ori’s fringe. “You mean he’s pretending to be someone else?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re going along with it?”

“Yes.”

“But why?”

“Because Gandalf promised me he’d take me back to the Shire if I lived up to my potential. And what better way to do so than by showing an escaped prince around the city all day and compiling the experience into a nice new record to live on in the Minas Tirith library for centuries to come?”

Ori considers this. “Is this what you were being so mysterious about this morning?”

“Yes. And do you remember what I said about paying you back?”

Ori nods.

“Once I get back to Bag End and reclaim all the money I left behind, I can send you what I owe you, and then some. But I need your help.”

“ _My_ help? How?”

“I need you to draw him.”

“But I already have. You saw it.”

“But you haven’t drawn him with his new beard. Or drinking wine in an inn like a commoner. Or anything else he wants to do with his one day of freedom.”

“Surely he’ll suspect something if I spend the whole day drawing him.”

“Just tell him you like his face and want to use him for practice.”

“Practice?” Ori huffs, offended. “I don’t need practice.”

“Yes, but _he_ doesn’t know that. He thinks you’re a barrel-rider.”

“A what?!”

Once Bilbo has explained what a barrel-rider is and apprised Ori of the various other intricacies of this unexpected situation (and once Ori has rinsed the newfound tea stain on his faded purple tunic), they start back towards the pub.

“Oh, I nearly forgot,” Bilbo says before Ori can open the door. “Could you lend me some more money?”

“But I already lent you some this morning,” Ori whines.

“I can’t show the Prince of Erebor around Minas Tirith on nothing. Like I said, you’ll have it all back when this is over.”

“And then some,” Ori reminds him.

“Yes, exactly,” Bilbo affirms, and with a sigh Ori reaches into his pocket.

When they return to the table, Thorin has nearly finished his wine and is currently staring at the remaining red in the bottom of the glass, his hand running absently through what’s left of his beard.

“Very sorry to have left you,” Bilbo says as he and Ori take their seats.

Thorin shrugs. “You came back.”

“Of course we did. Ori, would you like a drink?”

Ori is currently busy staring at Thorin with an open mouth.

“Ori?” Bilbo repeats, only thinly veiling his annoyance, and the scribe finally turns his head.

“What’s that? Oh, yes, a drink. That sounds fine.”

Once they’ve ordered Ori an ale (Bilbo apologizes profusely to the frazzled barman for breaking his teacup), Thorin looks at the newest addition to their table and asks, “What did you mean before? When you said I was a ‘ringer’?”

Ori appears to have lost the ability to speak, so Bilbo jumps in with an explanation. “It’s a word used in Gondor to mean someone who… is very charming. It’s a compliment.”

Thorin nods uncertainly. “I see. Well, thank you for saying so,” he says to Ori, who merely smiles. Then his drink arrives and he gulps down half of it at once.

They don’t speak for a few moments. What does one discuss with a prince one has only just met whose identity as a prince one does not wish to reveal their knowledge of?

Bilbo glances at Ori, who is wiping foam from his sparse mustache and making a conscious effort _not_ to stare at Thorin—Bilbo hopes not suspiciously so. Thorin, meanwhile, is draining the last of his wine like the final sands through an hourglass.

That’s when Bilbo smells something drifting from the next table over and gets an idea.

“Oaken, how would you like to try a bit of Old Toby?”

Thorin looks at him quizzically.

“Pipe-weed,” Bilbo elaborates, reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket to retrieve his tobacco pouch. “From the Shire. It’s the best you can smoke. Don’t let any of the Big Folk tell you otherwise.”

“I didn’t bring a pipe with me,” Thorin says.

“Not a problem. You can use mine,” Bilbo assures him, moving to the other side of his jacket to pull out his long-stem pipe. Ori’s borrowed drawing nearly flies out in the process, but he shoves it back behind the fabric just in time.

Bilbo stuffs the pipe and lights it using the small candle at the center of the table. Thorin accepts it hesitantly, but after taking his first puff he hums with satisfaction. “How did you come by this so far from home?”

“A friend of mine has quite the supply,” Bilbo explains. Thank goodness Gandalf provides him with _something_ to remind him of home.

Thorin continues smoking, appearing slightly graceless when it comes to handling this particular style of pipe, but enjoying the experience nonetheless. Bilbo nudges Ori to get his attention, staring pointedly at his closed sketchbook. Ori takes far too long to recognize the hint, but when he does he sketches at a frantic pace, loosely outlining Thorin’s sharp profile and the curve of the pipe’s stem.

Thorin notices him. “What are you doing?”

Ori’s pencil stops short on the page, and he looks up, petrified, convinced he’s been found out. “Drawing,” he says carefully, as if there were any other answer.

“It’s his hobby,” Bilbo hurries to explain. “He draws everything in sight. He’s drawn me more times than I can count. Show him, Ori.”

Ori flips through the pages of his sketchbook to find a portrait of Bilbo that he drew a few months ago during a dull afternoon in the library when Gandalf was away. Bilbo hadn’t thinned out so much from missed meals back then, and if you ask him, he looks more like himself in that sketch than he does in the mirror these days.

Ori turns the book on the table to face Thorin, who lets out a breath of smoke and leans in to examine it more closely. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “That’s very good.”

“Do you mind me drawing you?” Ori asks him.

Thorin spends a moment glancing between Ori and the drawing, before sitting back with a nod. “I suppose that’s fine.”

Ori appears very relieved, and wastes no time returning to his work.

Thorin takes another puff of the pipe, this time blowing a perfectly round smoke ring past Bilbo’s head.

“Ah, very impressive,” Bilbo remarks, and he means it. “Tell me this—can you get one over that beam up there?”

Thorin follows the angle of Bilbo’s gesturing finger and smirks. “Easily.”

And so he attempts it, aiming the ring towards the requested point. It very nearly makes it, but dissipates at the last second. Thorin frowns. Bilbo fails to suppress his snicker.

“Well, why don’t you try it, then?” Thorin asks.

“Gladly,” Bilbo says, reaching for the pipe. He plucks his handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the mouthpiece before taking a deep puff. He blows a ring towards the same spot, and it sails over the beam intact before dissolving on the other side. “Nothing to it,” he says proudly, drinking in Thorin’s expression of displeasure.

“Give me that,” the dwarf grumbles, taking the pipe back and blowing another ring in the same direction. He misses again.

They spend the next ten minutes passing the pipe back and forth—handkerchief forgotten—as Bilbo attempts to teach Thorin how to blow smoke rings like an expert. All the while Ori is sketching madly beside them.

After several failed attempts, Thorin is finally successful, although not by much, and the surrounding bar patrons, who have taken an interest in their little competition, erupt into applause. Thorin shoots a triumphant grin at Bilbo, who adds his own palms to the clapping.

“Well,” Bilbo begins once the excitement has died down and the pipe has burned out, “we best get going if we want to do everything you’d like. Perhaps we can make some sort of schedule, to be sure we finish it all.”

“Schedule?” Thorin repeats, looking very disturbed by the use of that word. “No, I’d much prefer it if we didn’t.”

“Very well,” Bilbo agrees quickly. “We’ll just see where the day takes us.”

And so, after leaving money on the table to cover both the tab and the damaged teacup, they depart the Old Guesthouse and head out into the city, taking their lies along with them.

_____________

Balin pulls Thorin’s pipe out of his traveling chest. The square bowl, artfully engraved with a chevron pattern, is heavy in his hand. He’s been searching in vain through Thorin’s belongings in the hope of finding some clue as to where he’s gone.

Dwalin, meanwhile, is pacing back and forth on the balcony, permanently frustrated with his inability to set out and look for Thorin himself. After a few more moments, he stomps into the room. “Balin, it’s getting too late. I won’t stand here being useless all day.”

“Any word from the guards?” Balin asks, lifting a pair of curling parchments missing their twine.

“No updates since we sent them out. Most likely loitering in the streets,” Dwalin says with disdain.

Balin runs his hand over the fur collar of Thorin’s regal robe.

He takes a deep breath and looks his brother in the eye, aiming a finger at him. “Don’t draw attention to yourself. No intimidation tactics. No growling. No property damage. Not a word to draw suspicion.”

Dwalin rolls his eyes and nods. “I’ll track him down by nightfall, mark my words.”

He turns and starts for the door, but Balin stops him with a disapproving mutter of his name.

“No axes,” the white-haired dwarf says sharply.

Dwalin opens his mouth to protest, but Balin simply raises one bushy eyebrow and points to the bed. His brother snarls more than one Khuzdul curse under his breath as he draws the blades from behind his back and drops them onto the mattress.

“None of those words, either,” Balin shouts after him as he slams the heavy door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just had to keep the "ringer" bit from Roman Holiday, considering the Tolkien fandom and all.
> 
> Baranor is the father of Beregond, who will be familiar to anyone who's read The Lord of the Rings. Pippin first meets Baranor's grandson Bergil outside the Old Guesthouse in Return of the King, so I thought it would be fitting.
> 
> As usual, thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

Thorin can still taste Old Toby on his tongue as he and his newfound companions step onto the inn’s greensward. It’s mid-afternoon now, and the warm air is accented by a gentle breeze. He couldn’t ask for a better day to explore the city.

Thorin had been suspicious of Bilbo, as is a dwarf’s initial tendency towards those who are not their kin. But he’s been nothing but generous all day, which is admirable considering he doesn’t appear to have much to give, at least not in terms of wealth. Kindness, good humor and understanding, however? He seems to be overflowing with them.

“If you were hoping to see the Citadel,” Bilbo tells him as they reach the street, and Thorin’s heart skips a beat at the mention of the place, “I’m afraid we can’t. One must have special permission for that, and the gate is heavily guarded.”

“No matter,” Thorin says as casually as possible. “I imagine there are much more interesting things to see anyway.”

“Did you have anything in mind?” Bilbo asks.

Thorin considers this. Besides the inn, he has very little idea of what is available to him, although he does suddenly remember something he noticed last night when he sneaked out of the rubbish cart. “Could we see the stables? I believe I saw a sign pointing in their direction last night on the sixth level.”

Bilbo nods, seeming to know where he’s talking about. “Well then, to the stables we go. Ori, are you with us?”

The dwarf, upon hearing his name, lifts his nose out of his sketchbook and nods. Very strange, that one. However, the revelation that Bilbo is already friendly with at least one other dwarf certainly eases Thorin’s mind.

They pass several uniformed guards at various points on their way up to the sixth level, and each time Thorin instinctively lowers his head. They don’t seem to notice him, which is of course what he wants, and yet he can’t help but wonder why he hasn’t been found yet. Have they not sent anyone to look for him or spread word throughout the city that he’s missing? There’s a small part of him that thinks maybe they haven’t made any attempts to find him at all, that perhaps they’ve decided they’re better off without him if he’d rather be somewhere else.

 _No_ , he thinks, shaking his head. _That couldn’t be it_. More likely, Balin is just doing this to teach him a lesson, assuming he’ll have such a hard time of it on his own that he’ll come crawling back in the blink of an eye. Yet it’s been several blinks, and he’s done just fine, notwithstanding the mishap last night… and this morning.

Thorin halts his contemplation once they’ve reached the stables. Seeing as the main gate is unlatched and ajar, they nudge it open and enter. Inside, between the rows of horses, a young man, likely the stablehand, sits with his chair leaned against a wooden post. A whittling project sits abandoned in his lap, and his feet are crossed at the ankle on a nearby barrel. His eyes are closed, and every few seconds a hideous snore escapes his open mouth.

Thorin is grateful that he possesses no such habit. He’s been informed by everyone who’s ever witnessed him sleeping that he does so in perfect silence. Well, everyone except for his brother Frerin, who insists he snores, but Thorin suspects he’s making that up to annoy him. Anyway, Bilbo certainly would have mentioned it if he’d heard anything last night. Wouldn’t he?

Ori takes a seat on a bench near the door, still scribbling away in his sketchbook. The stablehand, meanwhile, is still sleeping, his chair balanced more and more precariously on its back legs with every passing second.

Thorin and Bilbo creep quietly past him and stroll side-by-side down the aisle. Some of the horses stretch their heads over the gates of their stalls, snorting their hellos. Still others appear wholly uninterested in their visitors.

The stables aren’t very extensive, housing only about a dozen horses. It makes sense, since Minas Tiirith isn’t the ideal terrain for riding. Thorin remembers being told when he arrived that most of them are used to carry messengers for the steward. The ponies which have been pulling the caravan during Thorin’s tour are thankfully being kept in a stable outside the city’s walls.

Not that he thinks they would give him away. Still, best to be careful.

“Have you ridden horses before?” Bilbo asks Thorin.

“Horses? No. I do have some experience with ponies, but for the most part I’ve just ridden goats.”

“Goats?” Bilbo says, sounding amazed.

“Yes. Do you not have goats in the Shire?”

“On the contrary, we have many. But we use them for milk and wool, not as a means of transportation.”

“Then you ride ponies?”

“Not back home, but I rode one on my journey here. I don’t much care for it, I must admit.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, I like the creatures well enough,” Bilbo explains, petting a nearby horse on the snout. “I’d just prefer to have both feet firmly planted on the ground if I can help it.”

“Ah, so that’s why you don’t wear shoes,” Thorin remarks wryly, and Bilbo gasps in mock offense.

“I think walking around shoeless is far better than wearing whatever smelly things you had on your feet last night,” he teases, shrugging away from the horse currently nosing its way into the crook of his shoulder.

Thorin replies with a smile and a yielding nod, but inside he feels dreadfully embarrassed. He still doesn’t remember much of last night, and he thinks he’d rather keep it that way.

At the end of the aisle they discover a stall containing the building’s only pony, a brown and white thing with a thick coat and an even thicker mane. It tosses its head from side to side as they approach.

“Hello, there,” Bilbo coos, scratching the pony behind the ears. Thorin strokes a hand down the side of the creature’s neck. Its lips curl at the contact.

Thorin can’t quite believe how much he enjoys this—the crackle of straw beneath their feet, the feeling of the pony’s hide under his fingers, the gentle whinny it offers up in response. He doesn’t get many opportunities to interact with what few animals there are in and around the mountain, at least not in this context. He’s not traveling or training or sending a raven to deliver a message. There’s no important and official purpose to this interaction—it simply _is_.

“Shall we ride him?” he asks suddenly.

Bilbo turns to him with raised eyebrows. “Didn’t you hear what I just told you? Feet. Firmly planted, thank you very much.”

“You said we were having an adventure, didn’t you?”

Bilbo glances at the pony, who is nudging his shoulder to get him to resume his petting. “Can’t you ride him on your own?”

“I could.”

Bilbo nods then, as if it’s settled.

“But I’d rather you did it too,” Thorin adds. Perhaps it’s because he’s been out of his element so many times today, and he’d like to see Bilbo do the same.

Or perhaps it’s just because of that remark about his boots.

Bilbo stares at Thorin for a moment, considering. Then he cranes his neck to look past Thorin towards where the stablehand sleeps. He shows no signs of stirring.

With one last ruffle of the pony’s mane, Bilbo sighs. “Very well.”

As stealthily as possible, they open the gate and step into the stall. Together, they remove the bridle and saddle from where they hang on the wall and fit them on the pony, shushing it when it lets out a particularly loud whinny. Still, the stablehand snores.

Through a door at the back of the building, there is a small courtyard, open to the sun, that is set up like a riding pen, with a dirt floor and a wooden fence surrounding it. They take one last look behind them to make sure the coast is clear—or at least unconscious—before leading the pony outside.

Ori, meanwhile, glances up from his sketchbook and shoots them an alarmed expression when he realizes what they’re doing. Bilbo waves him off, and he reluctantly returns to his drawing.

The pony appears very excited to be outdoors. They lead him to the center of the pen, where Bilbo takes the reins from Thorin and gestures for him to mount first. “After you.”

Once Thorin has settled into the saddle, the pony begins trotting forward, eager to get moving. He manages to stop him long enough for Bilbo to climb his own rather clumsy way up. It takes him more than one attempt to hoist himself, and then he’s only successful because Thorin grabs his arm and pulls him up behind him.

It’s a rather tight squeeze, and Bilbo holds onto the fabric of Thorin’s tunic like his own set of reins, avoiding the undoubtedly more comfortable option of wrapping his arms around the dwarf’s waist, or at least grabbing onto his sides. Thorin doesn’t see the sense in this, but he keeps it to himself.

“Are you ready?” he asks over his shoulder.

“Yes, but only a few paces around the pen, please.”

Thorin gives the pony a kick in the side, and in return they receive their few paces around the pen. And then a few more paces around the pen, and then a few more after that. The only thing is, those few paces happen at a much faster pace than they were anticipating.

This pony likes to run, and there’s nothing Thorin can do to stop him.

To ride a pony with no destination had been the idea, but he would like for there to at least be an end point.

By now Bilbo has abandoned whatever sense of propriety led him to clutch timidly at Thorin’s tunic and has instead moved on to crushing his ribs.

“Can’t you make him stop?” Bilbo shouts as the pony zig-zags across the pen.

“I’m trying!” Thorin shouts back at him, tugging on the reins to no avail.

It’s then he notices Ori standing in the doorway, seemingly caught between assisting them and simply drawing everything he sees in his sketchbook. Thorin helps him make his decision by yelling at him to get help.

Ori runs back into the stables and returns seconds later with the stablehand, who begins wildly waving his hands at them. “That’s Wasp! He’s not to be ridden!”

Yes, that’s become abundantly clear. Unfortunately it’s a bit late for his warning.

Thorin is beginning to think he’s doomed to spend the rest of his life riding an unruly pony around the same pen while a hobbit suffocates him. That’s when things take a turn. Specifically, the pony takes a turn, right past a terrified Ori and a frantic stablehand, through the stables and out into the street.

And so the pony runs.

Horses are rare in the city for a reason, and Thorin and Bilbo are discovering that firsthand. Men, women and children alike all dive out of the way as Wasp—what a fitting name—gallops through the crowd, sending baskets of shopping soaring through the air. The fiddle is knocked completely out of a street musician’s hands. A cart full of apples is overturned, and hundreds of them spill into the street.

Thorin can feel Bilbo’s forehead pressing against the space between his shoulder blades, his fingers digging into the muscle of his stomach as he tries to hold on. Thorin decides that as the one to start this, he should also be the one to end it.

With a sharp tug to the left, he gets Wasp to turn into an alley that leads to a dead end. The space between the buildings is so narrow that the pony has to slow down significantly in order to turn around. When he finally does so, rearing back on his hind legs and snorting, he’s blocked by several uniformed guards.

Thorin feels Bilbo’s breath on the back of his neck. “Feet,” he puffs. “Firmly planted.”

Fifteen minutes later, both his feet and Thorin’s are firmly planted on the floor of a jail cell.

They’re seated across from each other. Bilbo appears understandably frazzled, his hair a veritable bird’s nest and his face flushed. He hasn’t said anything to Thorin since they were seized by the guards and dragged here, the pony having been calmed enough to be led back to his stable. Somehow his silence bothers Thorin more than if he were being chastised.

The guards, who are of a lower rank than those stationed at the Citadel or even the seven gates, don’t appear to have recognized him as anything more than a reckless rider who stole a pony and left a trail of smashed apples and snapped fiddle strings in his wake.

There is a single guard stationed outside their cell, a small space with an iron-barred door and a square window set high on the wall. Thorin imagines there must be a separate dungeon somewhere for the most serious offenders and is thankful not to be there.

Not that he’s particularly thankful to be _here_.

He wishes he could use his royal advantage to get them out of this mess, but besides not wanting to reveal himself, he doesn’t know if they would even believe he was who he claimed to be. He looks less than princely at the moment, of his own doing.

Thorin is just about to open his mouth to apologize to Bilbo for getting them into this mess, but the hobbit cuts him off by addressing the guard.

“Excuse me, but how long will it be until we’re released?”

“As long as it takes,” the guard replies shortly.

“That’s rather vague,” Bilbo complains. “Would you at least give us a rough estimate?”

The guard doesn’t respond.

Bilbo rolls his eyes and drops his face into his hands. He sits like that for a moment. Then, as if suddenly getting an idea, he leans across the cell towards Thorin and whispers, “I’m going to try something. I’m not sure if it will work. Just go along with it.”

Thorin, having no idea what he has in mind but being very eager to get out of this cell through any possible means, nods.

Bilbo clears his throat. “Gandalf the Grey certainly won’t approve of this,” he says loudly enough for the guard to hear.

“Gandalf the Grey?” the guard scoffs. “What does Gandalf the Grey have to do with you?”

Yes, what _does_ Gandalf the Grey have to do with him? Thorin recognizes the name, of course. Gandalf is a wizard. He believes his father and grandfather have had dealings with him in the past. But how would a hobbit from the Shire even know of Gandalf’s existence, let alone invoke his name in an attempt to be freed from jail?

“I know him,” Bilbo says matter-of-factly. “He’s quite fond of me, actually, and he would be furious if he knew I was here. You should really let us out, otherwise I may have no choice but to alert him to my whereabouts.”

It would appear there’s more to this hobbit than meets the eye.

“Don’t try to talk your way out of this, halfling,” the guard retorts. “You’re wasting your breath.”

A second guard stomps in as the first is talking. “What’s going on here?” he asks.

“The halfling says he knows Gandalf the Grey,” says the first guard.

“Oh yes, I’m sure he does,” says the second. “And I’m Isildur’s heir.”

The guards have a good laugh over that, metal clinking as their shoulders shake.

Bilbo speaks over their guffaws. “I’m warning you. I can summon him like _that_.” He snaps his fingers.

“You think you can fool us?” asks the second guard. “Next thing you’ll tell us your dwarf friend here is the visiting Prince of Erebor.”

Thorin tenses. He doesn’t know whether to be insulted to be thought of as unbefitting royalty, terrified that he’ll reveal his true identity by reacting too noticeably to the comment, or relieved that he’s been so successful at disguising himself. As it turns out, he doesn’t have much opportunity to be any of the three, because thanks to Bilbo he spends the next few minutes being utterly amazed instead.

The hobbit takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and begins to chant in a language Thorin does not understand: “ _Sí a hlare ómaquettar. Lerya laman naiquentallo. Na coilerya en-vinyanta._ ”

Apparently the guards don’t understand it either.

“What’s that you’re saying?” says the first guard.

Bilbo doesn’t stop to explain himself, just continues to chant. “ _Sí a hlare ómaquettar. Lerya laman naiquentallo. Na coilerya en-vinyanta._ ”

“Stop muttering nonsense,” the second guard orders.

Bilbo just keeps chanting whatever it is he’s chanting, over and over again, the last word running back into the first and around and around again, his voice becoming louder and more confident with each cycle.

“ _Sí a hlare ómaquettar. Lerya laman naiquentallo. Na coilerya en-vinyanta._ ”

The more he repeats the words, the more fearful the guards become. Even with their faces partially obscured by metal helmets, Thorin can still see the panic forming in their eyes.

“You!” one of them shouts, pointing at Thorin. “Tell him to stop!”

Thorin stares at Bilbo, who opens one eye to glare at him before quickly closing it again, chanting all the while.

Play along. He needs to play along.

“I can’t,” Thorin tells the guards in his most solemn voice. “It’s too late.”

The next thing they know, they’re being shoved roughly onto the street outside, the guards slamming and locking the jail door behind them. Ori is standing nearby, having apparently followed them there after their arrest and appearing to have been pacing back and forth waiting for them to emerge. He hurries over as soon as he spots them.

“I’d given you up,” he says incredulously. “How did you get out?”

“Yes, how did we?” Thorin asks Bilbo, for he hasn’t entirely puzzled out what just happened. “What was all that about Gandalf the Grey?”

“Oh, he’s just an old acquaintance on my mother’s side of the family,” Bilbo says, as if it’s nothing. “Bringing him up can be useful in sticky situations. Some of the Men here are rather frightened of him. They think he’ll turn them into something unnatural.”

“And those words you spoke? That spell?”

“Nothing to do with anything, really. I heard him use it once to revive a dead bird. Anyway, it wouldn’t have much power coming out of _my_ mouth. Other than the power to break us out of jail, as you’ve just observed.”

“Remarkable,” Thorin says, shaking his head. This hobbit is full of surprises.

Bilbo’s attention is caught by something across the street. “Want to see something _really_ remarkable? Follow me.”

They enter an alcove almost entirely hidden by overgrown hedges. There is the face of a woman carved into the wall, three times the size of Thorin’s own head. Her eyes convey an unsettling malice, even through their old stone. Her lips are parted, and the semi-circular trough that sits at the foot of the wall suggests a fountain once ran from her mouth. Below the face, on the cracked and weedy stone floor, are three cats of various breeds who appear wholly undisturbed by their arrival.

“What is this?” Thorin wonders with awe.

“This is Berúthiel,” Bilbo explains, nodding to the stone face. “She was a Queen of Gondor long ago. Her marriage to King Tarannon Farastur was arranged to settle feuds with Berúthiel’s people, the Black Númenóreans. She was said to be quite nefarious, and would use her ten cats to spy on the kingdom.” He crouches down to pet a black cat sitting primly near his foot. “Tarannon had Berúthiel banished for it, and her name was erased from the Books of the Kings. But the people of Gondor still remember her, and here she remains in stone. Stray cats used to come here to drink, when it was a fountain. Now, years later, they’re still drawn to her.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Thorin says with amusement as one of the other cats, a calico, rubs itself against his leg.

“But that’s not all,” Bilbo continues, looking rather gleeful now. “Legend says that if you have secrets to hide and you put your hand into Berúthiel’s mouth, she’ll bite it off.”

Thorin scoffs.

“Ah, so you don’t believe it?” Bilbo asks.

“Of course not. It’s just foolish superstition.”

“All right, why don’t you try it, then?”

“I will,” Thorin says confidently. After all, there’s nothing to be afraid of.

So then why is his heart suddenly pounding in his chest? Why does he feel as if Berúthiel’s eyes can see straight through him, straight to the lies he’s been telling and the secret he’s hiding? Why does his hand snap back when he reaches towards her mouth?

“You first,” he tells Bilbo.

“I thought you weren’t afraid of it,” Bilbo says laughingly.

“I’m not.”

“Then why should I be the one to go first?”

“Why shouldn’t you? Do you have something to hide?”

“Of course not.”

“Then go on,” Thorin urges. “Put your hand in.”

Bilbo purses his lips and looks at Thorin with narrowed eyes. “Very well.”

He reaches his right hand out slowly, no doubt trying to build suspense. Thorin would be lying if he said he wasn’t affected by it. His eyes remain fixed on Bilbo’s fingers as they move closer and closer to the stone mouth. He can hear the scratch of Ori’s pencil against paper where he lurks somewhere behind them.

Thorin glances at Bilbo’s face as his hand rests on Berúthiel’s aged and cracking lip. His brow is furrowed, in concentration or concern Thorin cannot tell. Then, finally, so quickly Thorin almost misses it, Bilbo’s entire hand disappears to the wrist.

The next thing Thorin knows, Bilbo is lurching forward as if caught by something, grabbing his right arm with his other hand and tugging on it. He’s shouting as if he’s in pain, hunched over and struggling to get himself free. The cats bolt away in all directions, spooked by the sudden outburst.

Thorin feels the color drain from his face. It’s happened. It’s real. The mouth is biting his hand off. He should have gone first. He was a coward. How is it even possible? Can an old crumbling fountain truly contain such magic?

It doesn’t take long to decide that the only how he should be questioning at the moment is how he’s going to help Bilbo free his hand from this trap.

Thorin rushes forward to grab Bilbo’s arm. It only takes a second before it’s released. Bilbo stumbles backwards, and Thorin is horrified to see only a jacket sleeve bereft of a hand. “Bilbo!” he shouts. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know! We must get you help—”

Before he can say anything more, Bilbo’s hand suddenly appears from the depths of his sleeve, fully intact and uninjured. He extends it to Thorin, palm sideways, as if waiting for him to shake it.

“Hello, very nice to meet you,” he says with a grin.

Thorin stares at the hand, eyes wide, mouth agape, mind trying desperately to catch up to what his eyes are seeing. He can’t speak or move or do much of anything at first, shocked as he is.

And then he laughs. He laughs loudly and heartily. It’s the most genuine, spontaneous, uncontrollable laughter he’s expressed in far too long, certainly since he set off on this goodwill tour. He isn’t forcing a chuckle at one of King Fengel’s vulgar jokes, nor brushing off an embarrassing defeat during a sparring match. He’s simply laughing, for no other reason than that something made him laugh. It’s that simple, and it quite literally takes his breath away.

“Sorry about that,” Bilbo laughs along with him, giving him a friendly pat on the back as he doubles over. “But I simply couldn’t resist.”

It takes quite a few moments for Thorin to catch his breath long enough to respond, and even then all that comes out is more laughter. He supposes he’s making up for lost time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Sí a hlare ómaquettar. Lerya laman naiquentallo. Na coilerya en-vinyanta._  
>  (Quenya) Now hear words of my voice. Free [the] animal from curse. Be its life renewed.  
> (aka what Radagast says to revive Sebastian)
> 
> The Mouth of Berúthiel is my invented Minas Tirith version of the Mouth of Truth in Rome. I was unfamiliar with the story of Berúthiel until I started researching the history of Gondor, and I found her so interesting. Plus, everything's better with cats.
> 
> If you've never seen the Mouth of Truth scene in Roman Holiday, [go watch it immediately](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6af1dAc9rXo). Gregory Peck hiding his hand in his sleeve was unscripted, so Audrey Hepburn's reaction was totally genuine.


	7. Chapter 7

They’re wandering through the city with no particular destination, laughter still tickling the back of Thorin’s throat, when they pass a wall covered in stone tablets of various shapes and sizes, some of them overlapping, others missing significant chunks. They’re all inscribed with words. Curious, Thorin slows to a stop and examines one of them.

It appears quite new compared to some of the other tablets, its letters clear and deep-set, carved in sharp, angular Westron.

_IORETH’S FEVER BROKE. EACH DAY SHE FARES BETTER THAN THE LAST._

Feeling Bilbo approach to stand by his side, Thorin turns and asks, “What do all of these inscriptions mean?”

“Each one represents a wish fulfilled,” Bilbo explains. “It began a long time ago, when the city was under catapult attack. This area was bombarded with boulders. A woman and her children ran up against this wall for shelter and wished to be spared. The boulders fell close, but they survived the attack. Later, the woman returned and placed the first tablet against the wall. Ever since, people have come here to make wishes, and when they’ve been granted, they add their own tablet.”

Thorin nods. He wonders how Bilbo knows so much of this city’s history, how he can recite these stories so easily, as if he’s memorized them. He supposes that living in a place long enough teaches you its identity. He would rattle off the history of Erebor on the spot if he weren’t so sure it would give him away.

His eyes travel from tablet to tablet. Some inscriptions are long and detailed, others only a few words. Some are trivial, some vague. Some contain additional wishes. Some he has to squint to read, others have eroded so much they’re nearly invisible. Some of them aren’t even tablets at all, but messages scrawled clumsily into the existing stone.

There are many carvings and inscriptions throughout Erebor, to commemorate the dead, preserve the city’s history, and even simply to give directions or mark an important location. And yes, there is graffiti, from the names of young dwarves scribbled in giddy haste before their elders catch them, to vulgar words, to lines of song. But he’s never seen anything quite like this, such an overwhelming collection of hope set against a single wall and spanning so many centuries.

_I WAS GIVEN WORK AT THE BUTCHER’S._

_IT HAPPENED._

_PAPA AND MAMA GAVE ME EVERYTHING I WANTED FOR MY BIRTHDAY. A ROCKING HORSE AND A CLOTH DOLL AND A TOY SWORD AND A BOX OF MARBLES AND A WHISTLE._

_I FOUND THE SHOE I WAS LOOKING FOR. IT WAS BEHIND THE CHAIR._

_SHE LOVES ME._

It strikes Thorin that quite a few of his own wishes have been granted today. Some have been wishes he didn’t even know were lurking inside of him until they were fulfilled, like smoking Shire weed out of a long-stemmed pipe or laughing so hard his sides cramped.

There’s another wish that’s been trickling from the back of his mind. Silently, he makes it, although he knows he won’t be back to add a tablet. The chance of it coming true is quite slim.

“It’s getting close to sundown,” Bilbo remarks from beside him. “What shall we do now?”

Thorin remembers back to his conversation with the barber earlier today. Perhaps, he decides, there is one last wish that _can_ be granted. “I was told about a party happening tonight. By the river.”

“Ah, yes,” Bilbo says with a nod. “They’re often held there on Friday nights.”

“Have you ever attended one?”

“Me?” Bilbo asks, as if it’s an absurd question. “No. But I do know that on nights like these there are wagons available to carry guests out of the city. I’m sure we could catch one if we hurry.”

Thorin nods and takes one last look at the wall of wishes before they begin their walk to the first level.

The area just before the main gate is teeming with people moving in all directions with no rhyme or reason, hurrying off to dinner or their final errands of the day. A great statue of a soldier on horseback rises from their midst, an island of stark white against a sea of black and grey.

As Thorin has been learning all day, it isn’t so easy for a dwarf to maneuver through a crowd of Men, especially when the way hasn’t been cleared for the specific purpose of getting him to his destination. He can’t imagine how it must be every day for someone as small as Bilbo.

Thorin finds himself taking the lead, being the tallest one, and—although he would never mention it in front of Bilbo or Ori—the most intimidating. He instinctively reaches for Bilbo’s hand behind him as they pass through the throng. He hopes Bilbo is doing the same for Ori, as he expects the dwarf is too engrossed in his sketching to see where he’s going. They eventually find their way to the open gate, just outside of which are several horse-drawn wagons filling rapidly with passengers.

Thorin lets go of Bilbo’s hand then as they start for the gate, but he stops short thanks to something he sees out of the corner of his eye. Or thinks he sees, rather. When he turns his head it seems to have vanished, and he hopes it was just his eyes playing tricks on him.

“Oaken?” Bilbo asks from nearby. “Is everything all right?”

Thorin twists around to find Bilbo and Ori about to step into one of the wagons, which is already quite cramped. “Oh. Yes,” he mutters, moving towards them. “It’s fine. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

He climbs into the wagon after them, squeezing between two men. One of them, a fellow with long blond hair falling past his shoulders, stares at him curiously, so he shoots him a scowl which he hopes properly disguises the fear that’s twisting in the pit of his stomach. The man darts his eyes away.

As the wagon moves away from the city and towards the river, Thorin watches the sun set on the horizon and thinks perhaps the same can be said for his adventure.

_______

Bilbo is nervous. Their journey outside the city’s walls seems to have reignited Thorin’s paranoia. Perhaps attending this party wasn’t a wise choice. And yet it’s what Thorin wanted to do, and that’s the whole idea, isn’t it? Otherwise he might decide to go back, and that’s the last thing Bilbo wants.

Because then there would be less for him to document, of course.

By the time the wagon arrives at the river, night has fallen. Various tents and tables have been set up on a grassy field not far from the water’s edge. The area is lit by dozens of lanterns, and a band has already begun to play. Arriving partygoers gravitate towards a small wooden ticket booth. Bilbo rummages in his pocket for the price of admission. This adventure is certainly costing him.

Well, costing Ori mostly. He mustn’t keep forgetting that.

Speaking of Ori, Bilbo notices that he’s finally come up for air after a day of steadfast sketching. Unfortunately he doesn’t seem to be enjoying the change of scenery. As they wait in line to pay, Ori stares wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the one of the other wagons.

“Ori? What is it?” Bilbo follows his gaze.

“He’s here,” Ori says, voice cracking.

“Who?” Bilbo wonders, beginning to worry. Is it a guard? Someone searching for Thorin? Oh no, it isn’t Gandalf, is it?

He gets his answer in the form of a familiar voice snapping Ori’s name. Turning towards the sound, Bilbo can see Dori coming towards them, a flurry of disapproval and perfectly coiffed braids.

“Ori, what are you doing here? You told me you would be working past dinner.”

Ori takes a deep breath and puffs up his chest. “I had other things to do,” he tells his brother firmly. He receives a sharp glare in return and quickly deflates.

“I don’t know what you’re up to,” Dori says, “but I won’t tolerate lies.” Remembering his manners, he nods a hello to Bilbo and then to Thorin, the sight of whom causes him to double take, but not for the reason Bilbo initially fears. “Oh, hello there! You decided to come!”

“Yes, I did,” Thorin says.

“You two know each other?” Bilbo wonders, glancing between them.

“Dori cut my beard earlier today,” Thorin explains, and ah yes, that’s right—Dori is a barber. Bilbo has eaten so many of his scones he just thinks of him as a baker.

“I must say, it still looks splendid,” Dori says of his handiwork. He spends a beat admiring it before realizing something. “Wait a minute. Ori, how do you know Oaken?”

Ori mutters about fifteen partial sentences before Bilbo cuts in—a common occurrence today, it would seem. “I introduced them. I’m afraid I encouraged Ori to leave work for the day.”

“Bilbo,” Dori gasps. “I never would have expected such a thing from you. I’ll have you know I already have one delinquent brother. I’m trying very hard not to have another one, and this kind of behavior is not helping.”

“Dori,” Ori groans.

“That’ll be quite enough, Ori. Now I think I must take you back to the city.”

“But—”

“None of that. Come now. We’ll get one of the wagons to take us. Dreadfully sorry to leave you, Oaken. Please, do stop by the shop for some braids. Free of charge. Any time. It would be my pleasure.”

Thorin doesn’t have a chance to respond, because Dori is already dragging his brother away by the scruff of his tunic.

Bilbo opens his mouth to protest, but it’s no use. He can hear Dori muttering admonishments as they go. He would have liked for Ori to draw Thorin at the party, but that seems to be out of the question now. He supposes he can just describe it all to him later. It worked well enough for Bag End.

“Well, I guess it’s just us now,” Bilbo says.

“I can’t say I’m disappointed,” Thorin admits. When Bilbo raises his eyebrows, he rushes to clarify, “Because, well, I’d rather not spend the evening with Dori if I can help it. He did a very good job on my beard, but…”

“Ah, yes. Dori is an acquired taste. One which I’ve yet to acquire.”

Thorin laughs at that, and in a moment or two they arrive at the ticket booth. Bilbo grumblingly asks Thorin to hand over the admission, as the window is too high for him to reach. He knows there isn’t exactly a surplus of hobbits in these parts, but it’s times like these he feels particularly excluded.

Mercifully, Thorin doesn’t comment on it with more than a slight but undeniable smirk, and they enter the party.

Bilbo hasn’t been outside the city’s walls since he arrived with Gandalf. It seemed useless to leave if he couldn’t make the entire journey home once he was out. But he must admit it’s nice not to be surrounded by stone, to feel the grass between his toes and see water rippling in something other than a bucket or a basin.

Also the food. It’s nice to see that too.

Bilbo nearly makes a beeline for a very tempting stack of cheeses before remembering his company. “Would you like to get some food?” he asks.

Thorin nods. “I suppose we should, shouldn’t we?”

Bilbo piles his plate with two of everything. His meats blend with his sweets and his bread is soaked with several different sauces, but he pays no mind. As his father used to say, it all has the same destination. Not to mention he has several meals to make up for today—even more if you include all the ones he’s missed over the past six months.

It’s not until he’s reached the end of the table and is on his way to pour himself an ale that he notices Thorin staring at him.  His own plate has been divided into three simple sections—meat, cheese and bread. He looks at Bilbo’s plate and then at Bilbo himself, as if wondering how it could possibly all fit.

“I like food,” Bilbo says self-consciously.

“I certainly hope so,” Thorin replies.

All of the seating has been occupied by larger folk, so they sit on the grass to eat. Neither of them says much. Thorin is too busy watching the party, and Bilbo is too busy chewing. But as they reach the end of their plates—which happens at surprisingly the same rate due to Thorin’s distraction and Bilbo’s hunger—Thorin turns to him and speaks.

“If you don’t mind my saying so, Master Baggins, I think you are a ringer.”

“Hmm?” Bilbo asks, bewildered, through a full mouth. Then, as he swallows, he remembers the nonsense he spewed back at the inn about Gondorian colloquialisms. “Oh! Thank you very much.”

“Truly,” Thorin continues. “You’ve spent the entire day doing things I want to do. I’ve never heard of anyone being so kind to a stranger.”

“Well,” Bilbo begins, feeling uncomfortable and reaching for humor to save him, although perhaps reaching too far, “you did sleep in my bed all night. I’d say that made us a little more than strangers.”

If he didn’t know any better, he’d say Thorin is blushing. “Yes. True. Still, you’ve been very unselfish.”

 _Unselfish_. Bilbo winces at the word. The lying had been fun for awhile, but he hadn’t really considered what it might mean to Thorin, or what favorable and wholly untrue things he may be—or rather, _is_ —thinking about Bilbo and his intentions.

For if there’s anything Bilbo has been today, it’s not unselfish. To think this all started when he decided to be precisely the opposite, last night when everything was simple and no one was pretending to be someone they’re not.

Bilbo is beginning to respond with some sort of mild humility and then hopefully shift to another topic of conversation entirely, but he’s interrupted by the sudden appearance of a little girl beside them. Her bright red hair, twisted into two long, messy plaits, is the only color against the mixed neutrals of her clothing—and indeed against most of the party, bleak as the Gondorians’ garb tends to be.

“Are you a dwarf?” she asks Thorin.

“I am,” he confirms, and she grins proudly to have guessed correctly.

“Why is your beard so short?” she wonders, reaching out without permission to touch it.

Thorin doesn’t seem to mind. He just laughs and tells her, “I had it cut. How do I look?”

She steps back a bit, taking her time to assess it with squinted eyes and a taut mouth. “Good,” she concludes with a nod.

She moves on to admiring his braids then, excitedly holding them up to her own to compare. Bilbo forks the last few potatoes on his plate and looks on with amusement. He tucks his feet underneath him, however, preferring not to have the same evaluation conducted on his own unique features.

The girl takes Thorin’s large hand in both of her own. “Dance!” she exclaims, attempting to pull him to standing. He stays put for a few tugs before lifting himself with only his legs.

“How strong you are,” he tells her with a pat on the head. He turns to Bilbo. “I’ve been asked to dance. Do you mind?”

“Oh no, by all means,” Bilbo tells him. He expects the girl to drag Thorin away then, but that doesn’t happen.

“You too, little elf,” she says instead, grasping Bilbo’s jacket sleeve, and what is it with everyone thinking he’s an elf today? At least she didn’t mistake him for a child. He thinks.

“No, I think I’ll just watch,” he says, but she insists. And so does Thorin, a mischievous smile decorating his face.

“Oh, very well,” Bilbo says, putting down his plate and standing.

First the pony, and now dancing. The things he’ll do for a good story.

The little girl takes each of them by the hand and hurries to the center of the party, where a few dozen guests have begun to dance to the music.

They stand uncertainly at first until the girl shouts, “Circle! Circle!” and encourages Bilbo and Thorin to grab hands and form the desired shape.

Once they’ve done that, she shouts for them to “Move! Move!” and so they do, in very different manners. Bilbo steps from side to side, while Thorin moves his arms up and down.

She isn’t satisfied. “No, no. Spinning!”

They settle on a direction and get to it, clumsily at first, with more than one toe paying the price. But they eventually find a pace that works, and round and round they go.

Bilbo feels very dizzy, and a little nauseous thanks to his full stomach. Yet this reminds him so very much of being a fauntling in the Shire, skipping around a maypole or linking arms with his cousins during storytime.

It must look absolutely ridiculous—a dwarf and a hobbit spinning hand-in-hand with a child in the midst of dancers twice their size. But those dancers are only blurs racing past them, and really, why worry what a blur thinks?

Bilbo isn’t quite certain who is smiling more—Thorin or the girl. Or him, if he’s being honest.

“Ioreth!” a motherly voice calls from nearby, and the girl pulls away from both of them.

“I have to go now,” she says, and then adds, “Dance with each other.”

With a force no one would expect from someone her size, she shoves Bilbo into Thorin and runs off giggling. Bossy little thing, that one.

Bilbo has instinctively placed his hands on Thorin’s chest to steady himself, and the dwarf’s own have come to rest on his back to catch him. He can feel vibrations against his temple where it rests against Thorin’s collar bone and diagnoses it as a symptom of soft laughter. It feels rather nice, Bilbo decides, and he can’t quite bring himself to move.

Oh dear, that can’t be good.

The vibrations abruptly cease after a moment, and Bilbo hears Thorin’s voice above him: “Let go.”

He takes a step back, coaxing his face into any expression other than hurt. “All right, there’s no need to be so blunt about it.”

“No.” Thorin is shaking his head, eyes focused on something in the distance. “I said, ‘Let’s go.’ We should leave. Now.”

“What’s the matter?”

Thorin responds by grabbing Bilbo’s hand and pulling him away. As bossy as that little girl, it seems.

They push through the crowd, and it’s only after they pass the bandstand that Bilbo realizes they’re actually running _away_ from where they entered the party, getting closer and closer to the river. “Is someone chasing us?” Bilbo asks, but he gets no answer because Thorin’s hand is jerked out of his thanks to a straggling dancer unaware of his surroundings—as well as how much he’s had to drink.

The man apologizes vaguely, his stumbling figure blocking Thorin from Bilbo’s view. Just as he’s about to hurry around the man and after Thorin, another, smaller figure elbows past both of them. He’s also headed towards the river, and although Bilbo misses his face, he can see a balding head, a fur collar, and a stature that suggests he is a dwarf.

It looks as if Thorin’s adventure could very well be over.

Bilbo pauses, unsure of what he should do. Would he be any help to Thorin against this dwarf even if he were to catch up with him? Then again, if Thorin manages to fend him off, he doesn’t want to look as if he’s abandoned him.

Then there’s the realization, the one that causes an ache in Bilbo’s chest that he’d prefer not to think about, that they haven’t said a proper goodbye.

He pushes the drunkard out of his way and continues towards the river.

_________

Thorin has cleared the party and is almost to the river when he realizes Bilbo is no longer behind him. But he keeps running, because he’s not ready to go back yet. He’s not sure exactly when he will be, but he does know that he wants it to be on his own terms.

He can see a wooden dock ahead of him and heads for it, hoping there’s a boat tied to the end of it that he can use to escape. There isn’t one. Instead, he finds a scraggly grey dog sitting obediently tied to a post, perhaps waiting for its master to return from barge work.

“Thorin,” he hears Dwalin pant behind him. “Please. I don’t want to chase you.”

Thorin turns to face his bodyguard and friend. “Don’t make me go back,” he begs him.

“All these years we’ve known each other, and now you run from me?”

“This has nothing to do with you, Dwalin. This was something I needed to do for myself.”

“Thorin, you can’t keep this up. Just come back to the city with me.”

Thorin shakes his head and looks around, his gaze falling on the dog. It cocks his head at him.

“Thorin,” Dwalin repeats.

Thorin bends down and begins untying the rope around the dog’s neck.

“Oh, no,” Dwalin warns. “Don’t you dare, Thorin.”

But Thorin is already lifting the dog up and tossing him into the river. He doesn’t relish it, but he knows precisely how Dwalin will react, and consequently that the creature will be safe. Indeed, as Thorin races past him back towards the riverbank, Dwalin lunges forward to rescue the innocent bystander.

Thorin is back on the shore now, stumbling over pebbles as he runs parallel to the river, away from the party, not knowing where he’s going but moving anyway. He wonders where Bilbo is, if he’s thinking poorly of him for this, if he’ll ever see him again.

He stops then, and the knowledge that he never even had a chance to say goodbye is enough to make him turn around and start back towards the party. He doesn’t make it far before he runs into someone he wasn’t aware he should be running from—a man with long blond hair past his shoulders, the same one who stared at him on the wagon earlier.

“I’ve been sent to find you, Prince Thorin,” the man tells him, reaching for his arm. Thorin pulls away at the last second and finds himself doing the only thing he can think of—diving into the river and swimming away.

________

Bilbo had seen it all—from Thorin’s stand-off on the dock to his diversion with the dog to his run-in with the blond stranger. He’d been only a stone’s throw away from him through all of it. As he’s about to discover, a stone’s throw just happens to be the perfect distance.

He sees Thorin leap into the river and watches as the blond man stands dumbfounded on the shore looking after him. Either there’s a hefty reward for turning Thorin in or he just wants to impress his superiors, because it’s only a moment before he’s shrugging his cloak off and preparing to jump in himself.

Bilbo’s hand finds the stone almost unconsciously. He tests the weight of it in his hand—hefty but surely not fatal—and hurls it at the man’s blond head. He hits his target, and the blow throws the man off balance enough that he collapses to the ground.

Bilbo rushes over to assess the damage. The man is lying on his back with his hand to his head, groaning more out of disorientation than pain, it would seem. At any rate, he appears to be alive and not bleeding, so Bilbo looks away from him and out onto the river. He can just make out Thorin’s head peeking above the surface as he swims out.

“Oaken!” Bilbo shouts, somehow mustering enough common sense to shout the dwarf’s false name. What he does next, however, has nothing to do with common sense, as with a deep breath and a questioning of his own sanity, he throws himself into the river.

________

Dwalin had watched Thorin untie the rope around the dog’s neck and knew exactly what he was about to do. They’ve known each other far too long, have memorized each other’s strengths and weaknesses with no effort. As Thorin is all too aware, Dwalin’s weakness often manifests itself with four paws and a wet nose.

“Curse you,” Dwalin had grumbled, already removing his fur-trimmed boots before Thorin had even finished tossing the poor creature into the water. There had been a splash and then a momentary stillness before the dog’s head broke the surface. He’d heard it whine, seen its narrow paws paddling to stay afloat.

Dwalin and Thorin had made eye contact, and he could swear Thorin had looked almost apologetic. It had happened in an instant, and then he had taken off past him up the dock.

Dwalin is crawling to shore now, sopping wet dog in his arms. He glances in the direction Thorin ran, but he sees no sign of him. It’s dark as a mine out here at this hour, and in any case, the prince got quite the head start. Perhaps it’s best to return to the city and wait him out.

The dog laps at Dwalin’s face, and he can’t help but smile. “I don’t suppose he told you where he was headed?” he wonders.

In response, the dog shakes the water from its head.

“Well, it was worth a try.”

_______

“Bilbo! Bilbo, where are you? Bilbo!”

The water is cold, and it’s dark, with only the moon and the lanterns from the nearby party to light the way. He’d heard Bilbo shout his name—or at least the one he knows him by—and had turned his head to witness him jumping in, but then he’d abruptly lost track of him. Now, treading water and squinting into the night, Thorin fears the worst.

“Bilbo!”

There is suddenly a great deal of splashing several feet away, and Thorin sees a mop of wet curls break the surface, followed shortly thereafter by Bilbo, who is gasping and flailing and looking generally panicked.

“Over here,” he blurts, sinking down again and then bobbing back up. “I’m afraid”—gurgle—“I’m not the best”—gurgle—“swimmer.”

“I’m coming,” Thorin tells him, paddling over as fast as he can. “Here, take hold of me.”

Bilbo spits out a stream of water and clumsily wraps his arms around Thorin’s neck. “Very embarrassing,” he mutters.

“I’ve got you,” Thorin says, starting to swim to shore, the merry music growing fainter and fainter, with Bilbo shivering against him.

After what feels like an eternity pushing through inky water, they wade the last bit and collapse onto the bank a safe distance from the party. Side by side they sit on the sandy pebbles, catching their breath and combing the dripping wet hair out of their eyes.

Thorin glances at Bilbo, whose teeth are chattering as he tucks his hands tightly under his arms and fidgets against the cold. Thorin reaches an arm around him, rubbing the length of his wet jacket sleeve from shoulder to elbow in an attempt to warm him up.

“It’s a good thing I parted with those heavy boots,” Thorin says once their breathing has returned to normal. “Otherwise I may have sunk straight to the bottom.”

“Yes, well, at least the river would have given them a good wash,” Bilbo quips with a sniffle, and Thorin can’t help but laugh.

“That was very brave of you to jump in after me,” he says after a moment, “not being able to swim.”

“I didn’t say I _couldn’t_ swim,” Bilbo clarifies. “Just that I’m not the best at it.”

“Ah, yes. My mistake. I take it being underwater goes against your rule about feet planted firmly on the ground.”

He can feel Bilbo shake, from laughter instead of the cold this time. “Anyway, nothing could compare to your diversion with that dog.”

“Oh. You saw that?”

“I did. How did you know it would work?”

“I’ve known Dwalin since childhood. He would never turn his back on an animal in danger.”

He expects Bilbo to ask about Dwalin, to wonder why the dwarf was so intent on catching him and what work could be so important that he can’t be allowed a day to himself. But he doesn’t, and Thorin is relieved for it. He’s tired of lying.

“Well, you’re very resourceful,” Bilbo says instead. “Although I can hardly say I’m surprised. I saw how quick you were to wield that candlestick this morning.”

This morning. Was it really so recent? It feels as if it were ages ago, and yet it still hasn’t been nearly enough time. He wants to tell Bilbo what a wonderful day it’s been, wishes he could properly explain how much it’s meant to him, but that feels too much like a goodbye.

So they sit quietly leaning against each other, watching the reflection of the moon against the rippling river. Even in the cold and the damp and the dark, Thorin doesn’t want to move from this spot. Moving means deciding what to do and where to go from here. He’s used to others making decisions for him. Facing them himself has worked out so far, but there’s always yet another to be made around the corner, and he’d rather not risk making the wrong one.

Bilbo’s shivering slows until he eventually stills under Thorin’s arm. Thorin thinks perhaps he should say something to break the silence.

“It was a very good party, while it lasted.”

Bilbo doesn’t respond, not even with a hum or a chuckle or a shift of acknowledgement. But Thorin can feel his eyes on him, so he turns his head, arm still swung securely around him, to ask if something is the matter.

His mouth opens on the start of a word and closes on Bilbo’s bottom lip.

Thorin inhales sharply at first, startled by both the coldness of the contact and the suddenness of the whole thing. But it takes only a moment for the kiss to warm up, and in turn for him to warm up to the kiss. Warmth is the only word Thorin can come up with to describe this.

He shuts his eyes. There is a hand on his chest, clutching the clammy fabric of his tunic, and it’s warm too, and then it’s gone just as quickly as it arrived, and Bilbo is pulling away.

Thorin doesn’t open his eyes at first, and when he does he can’t read Bilbo’s expression in the dark. He can only see the soft lines of his face where the rare light hits—the curve of his cheek, the roundness of his nose, the outline of his lips.

His lips.

Those lips are moving now.

“I suppose we’d better catch that wagon back to the city,” Bilbo is saying, and Thorin suddenly feels very cold again.

He blinks once, twice, three times. “Yes,” he says slowly. “We should.”

He feels Bilbo’s damp shoulder slip from beneath his fingers as the hobbit stands. The pebbles are sharp against his palm as he rises to join him.

“The long way round?” Bilbo asks. “To avoid the party?”

Thorin hums in agreement.

He hears Bilbo sniffle a few more times as they walk, but he doesn’t reach an arm around him.

How nice it was, while it lasted, to feel as if someone desired him for being anything other than a prince.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ioreth is another character from Lord of the Rings. She's an old woman who works in the Houses of Healing. ~~And she ships Bagginshield.~~
> 
> Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed.


	8. Chapter 8

Oh, dear. What was he thinking?

That was quite possibly the most Tookish thing he’s ever done. Even more Tookish than running out of Bag End with no money or handkerchiefs and traveling halfway across the world at the urging of a wizard to become a scribe in a strange city of Men.

He kissed the prince. And yet he had seemed so unlike a prince in that moment, soaking wet and shivering on the shore of the Anduin, his arm around Bilbo, complimenting his bravery and teasing him about his swimming ability. Bilbo had forgotten all about his plan, even forgotten how desperate he was to return to the Shire.

In that moment, there was no place he would rather have been.

So he did something very foolish. Thorin is mercifully being very polite about the whole thing. How princely of him. After all, what interest could Thorin, Son of Thráin, Prince of Erebor, have in a hobbit who can barely scrounge up enough coin for a cup of tea and who, for all he knows, rides around on the backs of barrel wagons for a living?

Even if he knew who Bilbo truly was, what his life was like before, what could Bilbo ever offer him that could compare to a life of royalty? He had his fun, his day of adventure and amusement living like a commoner, and now he’ll return to his feasts and his fur-trimmed robes and his enormous bedchambers.

Not that it matters. Bilbo will be going back to the Shire, after all.

Won’t he?

They had barely spoken on the way back to the city, and certainly not about what happened on the riverbank. They had been the only ones in the wagon, which didn’t make things any less awkward, but they weren’t about to risk one of Thorin’s pursuers catching up to them. The driver had been reluctant to leave with so few passengers, but Bilbo had given a false warning about seeing a grey-haired dwarf with intricate braids making his way over, and that had certainly changed the man’s mind.

They walk now through the darkened streets towards Bilbo’s room. Neither of them has decided on this as their destination, but where else are they to go? Their clothes, although no longer dripping, have plastered themselves to their skin like cold bandages.

The streets are quieter than they were when they left for the party, but by no means are they empty. Bilbo is unlatching the gate to his building’s courtyard—smiling privately as he observes Thorin standing upright beside him, in contrast to the previous evening—when a pair of women walks past.

“Did you hear about the dwarf prince?” one of them asks.

“Ill, isn’t he?”

“Yes. I heard it’s quite serious. How tragic it would be for his people to lose him.”

The other woman clicks her tongue sympathetically. “I do hope he recovers.”

Their voices fade as they exit the alley, most likely moving on to some new subject of gossip, but their words remain behind them, scattered around Bilbo and Thorin’s feet like fallen leaves. Neither of them dares step on them, yet somehow they still crunch.

Bilbo looks at Thorin’s face then, at his knitted brow and downcast eyes, and he knows.

It’s going to happen soon.

“Oaken?” he says softly, holding the gate open. “Are you coming?”

Thorin looks up. His hair hangs in limp waves around his face. “Yes,” he says, and follows Bilbo through the courtyard and up the steps.

Bilbo sets about lighting the place, with Thorin standing patiently close by, and then when he’s finished there’s the task of changing out of their wet clothes.

“Er, I don’t think I have anything that will fit you,” Bilbo admits, moving to the wardrobe. He pulls out his dressing gown, made for him by a tailor in the city. It’s a solid coffee color, the warmest tone he could find in the shop. “You can try this.”

Thorin looks utterly pessimistic but takes it from him anyway. He looks questioningly towards the washroom, and Bilbo nods for him to help himself.

When the door is closed, Bilbo hurries to peel off his own clothes, tossing them over the back of his desk chair. He tugs on the first shirt and trousers he can grab, nearly toppling over in his mad dash to make himself decent before Thorin reappears.

Perhaps he should have taken more time, because now he’s dressed and pacing the floor, thinking far too much about what he’s going to say to Thorin once he’s stepped back into the room. He begins rummaging through drawers, as if he’s going to find his answer there. In a way, he does, as his gaze falls upon a bottle of wine stashed behind a stack of books.

Gandalf had brought it for him his first night here. They hadn’t finished it. Bilbo remembers wrinkling his nose on the first sip, thinking he preferred his wine at home. Somehow he had expected everything to taste better here, simply for it being different. It wasn’t the first time he had questioned his decision to travel east, and it wouldn’t be the last.

Bilbo lifts the bottle carefully out of the drawer, but he nearly drops it on the spot when he sees Thorin exit the washroom. “Oh!” he exclaims.

The dressing gown doesn’t fit Thorin, as expected. It barely reaches his knees, revealing thick, strong calves coated in dark hair. The front is closed, by just enough. Then there are the sleeves, which extend to just past his elbows and threaten to split at the seams with the effort of stretching across his biceps.

Bilbo simply stares in shock at first, trying very hard to look anywhere except at the patch of furry chest peeking out over the tightly drawn shawl collar, before feeling the laughter push against his mouth. He suppresses it poorly for a moment before surrendering to it. Thorin, who had initially looked terribly uneasy, ends up laughing along with him, the same rich, velvety laugh that Bilbo had felt through the dwarf’s chest earlier tonight.

“It’s a bit snug,” Thorin says, and that only makes Bilbo laugh harder.

Ah yes, that feels better.

“Here, take the quilt,” he gasps, retrieving it from where he left it on the sofa this morning and approaching Thorin to drape it over his shoulders. In his attempt to reach around and grab the other side, he ends up standing much closer than he intended. Bilbo’s smile falls as he meets Thorin’s eye. The dwarf takes the corner of the quilt himself and shrugs it on.

Bilbo stands there for a moment looking up at Thorin, who in turn looks down at him, before abruptly clearing his throat and wandering over to his desk. “I found some wine,” he says. “Would you like some?”

“Is it a special occasion?” Thorin wonders.

“I’d say so, wouldn’t you? It’s been quite the day.”

“A magnificent day,” Thorin corrects.

Bilbo thinks, as he pours the wine into a cup and hands it to Thorin, that he couldn’t describe it better.

“I only have one cup, so I suppose I’ll just…” He takes a swig and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. He hasn’t drunk straight from the bottle since he was a tween, but he supposes he’s just keeping with the theme of the day.

Thorin carries his cup with him towards the sofa, where he takes a slow sip and examines the painting that hangs above it.

“Ori painted that for me,” Bilbo offers, falling back into his habit of talking about absolutely anything except what’s on his mind.

“Is this your home?” Thorin wonders.

“Yes. That’s Bag End.”

Thorin turns to him. “Do you miss it?”

Bilbo nods.

“Then why did you leave?”

Bilbo stalls by taking another drink, for what can he say? That he’d lived the same life for as long as he could remember? That he felt bored and restless and out of place? That it took a wizard saying good morning for him to even acknowledge such feelings? That he thought he’d never work up the nerve again? That it might have been his last chance? That he wanted an adventure, and it took trying to find his way back to where he started for him to finally get one?

“I was running away,” he says, putting the bottle down. “Same as you.”

Thorin cocks his head. “And do you like it here?”

“Some days,” Bilbo says, and if it were yesterday he wouldn’t be so generous in his estimation. “But I suppose life isn’t always what one likes.”

“No,” Thorin agrees, staring into his cup. “It isn’t.”

They stand silently for a moment, with Thorin looking at the painting and Bilbo looking at Thorin. He thinks about what he would look like in the Shire, ducking through doorways in Bag End, strolling down the flower-lined paths. He’d like to take him for a drink at the Green Dragon, to sit with him beneath the oak tree from which he took his new name, to see his home through Thorin’s eyes, the way he saw Minas Tirith through them today. That’s what he would like.

He chuckles when he imagines what the local fauntlings would think of having a dwarf in their midst. Which reminds him...

“You were very good with that little girl earlier. At the party,” Bilbo says, and it strikes him what a thin sliver he actually possesses of Thorin’s history. For all he knows he could have children of his own. Oh, but surely he doesn’t. Does he?

Thorin answers that without him having to ask.

“I grew up with two younger siblings, and I have two nephews as well. Rascals, they are. I’m fond of children, I’ve just never…” he trails off, then starts again: “I haven’t had the opportunity to have my own.”

Bilbo is just comprehending what Thorin means before the dwarf is moving on to the next subject.

“You never taught me how to play conkers,” he says.

“Hmm? Oh. Yes. Well, let’s see. I’m afraid I only have one at the moment.” Bilbo reaches into the pocket of his damp and discarded jacket to retrieve it. “It takes two to play.”

“Ah,” Thorin acknowledges. “That’s a shame.”

“Next time,” Bilbo says, knowing it’s an empty promise but feeling somehow comforted by the act of saying it out loud.

Thorin nods, and Bilbo detects the slightest wince disguised in a sip of his drink.

It’s going to happen soon, Bilbo thinks again, and almost as if in answer, the bell chimes in the tower of the Citadel, and soon comes faster than he was prepared for.

The bell rings four times, clear and unhesitant. Four hours past sunset. Each stroke echoes in the pit of Bilbo’s stomach. He can almost feel the movement in the city surrounding them as shopkeepers lock their doors, inn-goers raise the night’s final pints, and parents place blankets over fussy children who beg to sit up for just an hour more.

But in the middle of it all, Thorin and Bilbo are still.

That is, until they can’t be anymore.

Thorin drains the rest of his wine and places the cup gently on the desk before adjusting the quilt around his shoulders.

“I must go now,” he says, as if reciting a line in a book he didn’t write.

He makes to retrieve his clothes from the washroom but turns at the last second, instead reaching for Bilbo. He doesn’t make eye contact, simply places a hand on the hobbit’s arm and guides him into a hug, meeting no resistance.

Bilbo rests his chin on Thorin’s shoulder, feels strong fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt, a beard prickling the spot just below his ear.

 _Oh_ , he thinks, landing his own hands on Thorin’s back, _so it’s not just me._

It’s then that he starts thinking once again of what Thorin said to him at the party, and he repeats the same word in his mind over and over again— _unselfish, unselfish, unselfish_.

He takes a breath.

“There’s something I want to tell you,” he says in a tone very close to a whisper, part of him hoping Thorin won’t hear it.

He does, but it makes no difference.

“No,” Thorin replies. “Nothing. Please.”

So Bilbo says nothing, and yet it still feels like a lie.

* * *

They take their time walking up to the sixth level. Bilbo can’t decide who is matching whose pace, but he knows that he would take only a single step per day if it meant he could delay this goodbye.

At some point, Thorin’s hand finds its way wordlessly into Bilbo’s.

Eventually, far too soon, they reach the bench where they so unceremoniously met the night before. The street is just as empty as it was then, and quiet too, with not even the crackle of a conkers game to fill it. Thorin sits down, and Bilbo joins him. He had forgotten to put a jacket on before he left, and now, with his arm pressed against Thorin’s, he can feel the lingering dampness of the dwarf’s tunic through the thin cotton of his own sleeve.

They sit like that, staring straight ahead, until Thorin speaks, slowly at first, and then picking up speed with each ensuing statement.

“I must leave you now. I’m going around that corner there.” He nods to it and quickly averts his eyes, as if he can’t stand the sight of it. “You must turn around and go back. Promise not to watch me go beyond the corner. Just walk away and leave me.”

Bilbo hums in understanding, believing any other response would sound too enthusiastic.

Thorin is gripping the edge of the bench, so Bilbo edges his fingers closer across the stone until they mold together again.

“I don’t know how to say goodbye,” Thorin says helplessly. “I can’t think of any words.”

“Don’t try,” Bilbo says, as much to himself as to Thorin.

They turn to face each other, to face what has to happen, and Bilbo blanches to see tears in Thorin’s eyes, knowing that, however you consider it, he is the cause of them.

And then there’s the kiss, longer this time, less tentative. Thorin starts this one, and Bilbo still can’t quite believe that what he’s feeling is returned. He aches to think about how it all came to be this way. But there’s little use for the truth now, so he brushes his fingers through a close-cropped beard, relishes the ones alighting on his own cheek, and allows himself one more foolish moment.

Thorin pulls away, and Bilbo gives him a one-sided smile that his eyes can’t bring themselves to match.

Then without a word, Thorin stands, places his arms at his sides, and glances down at Bilbo where he still sits on the bench. He nods once, then turns to walk away. He doesn’t look back again, and in a blink he’s around the corner.

Bilbo stays on the bench for longer than he would probably admit, eyes fixed on the exact point in space where Thorin went invisible. It’s not that he thinks Thorin will turn around and come back to him, it’s just that if he does, he doesn’t want to have left this spot.

A hand-drawn passenger cart approaches, the same as the night before. And yet not the same at all, since tonight it doesn’t stop to pick up an exhausted dwarf and an exasperated hobbit. It passes, its drivers taking no notice of the figure on the bench, and Bilbo walks home alone.

It’s not until he’s back in the dark, with the door closed and the wicks still losing smoke, that he allows himself to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the sad, everybody. (I'm not.)
> 
> I spent a lot of this chapter listening to ["The Bell"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VyhOCEoqPUs) by First Aid Kit. I thought some of the lyrics fit well.
> 
> Just FYI, I changed the expected number of chapters from 10 to 9, because I decided I'll probably combine the two final chapters into one. Which means there's only one left!
> 
> Thanks as always for reading. I'd love to hear what you thought.


	9. Chapter 9

As Thorin rounds the corner, he releases a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. Yet there’s no relief in it. He doesn’t want to go back, not really. He only knows he has to, that he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t. He takes some solace in the fact that he’s doing this of his own free will, as much as you can call it that.

He loves his family, his people, his kingdom. But things will have to be different now. There’s no way they couldn’t be, after today.

As determined as he is to do this, he can’t help but hope to hear Bilbo’s voice behind him, telling him to come back, asking him to stay. He very nearly asked Bilbo to come with him before remembering who he’s been pretending to be. And yet it hadn’t felt like pretending, somehow.

He didn’t expect anything like this to happen when he leapt between balconies last night, but then again, what’s expected is exactly what he was trying to escape in the first place.

His fingers are stiff from clenching them by his side as he approaches the ramp leading to the Citadel. There are two guards stationed there, and their immediate reaction to his arrival is to step in front of him and block his way. He isn’t sure if it’s the darkness or his cropped beard or if the change he feels inside is reflected in his appearance, but they do not recognize him.

He closes his eyes, takes a breath. “I am Thorin, son of Thráin, Prince of Erebor.” He looks up at the helmeted faces looming over him. “I return.”

The guards glance at each other briefly before stepping aside and bowing deeply in both apology and respect. He nods to them and starts up the ramp. Perhaps his gait has regained some regality, for each subsequent guard he encounters on his way to his bedchamber merely stares at him in hushed wonder and allows him to pass.

Thorin grips the handle of the door carefully, and with a nod to himself, he turns it.

He barely has a moment to survey the room before Balin is rushing forward to greet him, placing a hand on each shoulder and squeezing.

“Thorin! Oh, thank Mahal.” The old dwarf’s eyes land on Thorin’s chin. He’s undoubtedly composing a lecture in his mind already. After a moment he shakes it off and tells him eagerly, “Come inside, laddie.”

Thorin looks over Balin’s shoulder and notices Dwalin seated in a chair in the corner. All at once he feels a pang of remorse for his actions by the river. Dwalin, however, does not appear angry, merely stands to join his brother in urging him inside.

Once he’s entered the room, the questions begin, mostly from Balin, whose expression vacillates between anger, disappointment and concern. Thorin can’t blame him, and he’s tempted to apologize, but feels as if doing so would somehow negate everything that’s happened to him since last night, and he can’t bear the thought of declaring something so precious to him a mistake.

“Where have you been, Thorin?” Balin asks. “You were gone an entire day. What am I to tell the public?”

There is a beat of silence, during which even the flames of the candles seem to be waiting with bated breath to hear what Thorin has to say to explain himself. But he knows what he must do.

He steels himself before his advisor. “You will tell them what you told them before. That I was indisposed, and now I am better.”

Balin is not convinced. “And what of those who may recognize you during your procession through the city? What if someone recognized you today, without your knowledge? What if they documented what they saw? What shall we tell your family when they see you’ve cut your beard? Your _beard_ , Thorin.”  He makes it sound as if Thorin amputated his own leg. “You must understand I have a duty to fulfill, Thorin. As do you.”

“Do not speak to me of duty,” Thorin snaps. Balin’s astonished expression leads him to soften his tone, but not his message. “I am perfectly aware of my duty, Balin. It is the very reason I returned tonight.”

Balin and Dwalin stare at him, not speaking.

“Now,” he continues, “considering we have a very busy day tomorrow, you have my permission to withdraw.”

“Thorin…” That’s Dwalin now, finally speaking up for the first time since the dock. He shakes his head ever so slightly, out of confusion or disappointment or refusal, Thorin can’t be sure, but it’s clear enough he doesn’t like what he’s hearing.

Thorin doesn’t relish speaking to them this way, with such authority, because he’s never thought of them as being lesser than him. They are his friends, his family. And hopefully, once they’ve started the journey back to Erebor, and on and on afterwards, they will speak to each other as the equals he believes them to be.

But, Thorin realizes, this isn’t about a prince commanding his subjects. It’s about a dwarf commanding his own life, royal blood notwithstanding. Oaken’s decisions have been made. Now it’s time to make Thorin’s.

“I would like to be alone, please,” he tells them.

Reluctantly, Dwalin nods and begins to leave.

“Dwalin,” Thorin says, and the bodyguard turns to him. Thorin isn’t sure of exactly what to say, so he settles for, “Thank you for coming to look for me.”

Dwalin merely scratches his bald head and mumbles a gruff response before stepping outside, where he will most certainly take the first watch, and perhaps even the second, if Thorin knows him.

Balin is less willing to leave. “If we could just briefly go over your schedule…”

“No, Balin,” Thorin says. “No schedule tonight.”

“But your speech…”

“That will be all, Balin. Thank you.”

Balin quiets, and with a final glare at Thorin’s chin, he steps toward the door. When Thorin notices him leaving it ajar as usual, he protests.

“I would prefer to sleep with the door closed, please.”

Balin appears skeptical, as if he is about to protest, but instead with a sigh and a “Very well, laddie,” he pulls the door closed.

Thorin takes in the emptiness of the room for a moment before moving onto the balcony. He peers over the railing at the levels of the city below, stacked like a teetering white cake fit for a king. He squints, wonders if he can see Bilbo, wonders if he is down there somewhere looking up at him and wondering the same thing.

He glances at the adjacent balcony. He could do it again. He could count to three, leap the distance, and sneak away.

He won’t do it, but he could, and somehow that makes all the difference.

With one last inhale of the night air, he returns to his room, removes his tunic, and sits on the edge of the bed to unlace his boots. He unfurls his braids and very nearly reaches to unclasp the one in his beard before remembering it isn’t there. He chuckles. It’s no wonder the guards didn’t recognize him. He barely recognizes himself.

He blows out the candles, lies back on the bed with his hands behind his head, and stares at the ceiling, at the stone kings gazing down at him once again from every direction. He can’t help but take note of how very different it is from what he saw when he woke up this morning, and in turn how much he beheld between the two sights.

A small flash of light catches his eye then. It flickers on and off over his head, and he realizes it’s a firefly, perhaps even the same one he saw the previous night. It’s found its way into the room from outside, and it hovers near the ceiling, illuminating the kings’ grey faces with a fleeting golden glow.

Thorin follows its every movement until his eyes tire of looking and he falls asleep.

* * *

Bilbo passes the night restlessly, alternating between the bed and the sofa and periodically reading the same three sentences of a book before putting it back down. Dawn finds him pacing the carpet, braces hanging by his hips and a hand running through the hair at the back of his neck. He’s removed his pen from the inkpot at least half a dozen times now, but not a word has been written.

 _You’re being absurd_ , Bilbo tells himself, and yet when a knock comes at the door, he leaps to answer it, heart pounding all the way to his ears.

“Oh,” he says once it’s open. “Good morning, Gandalf.”

“Don’t look so disappointed to see me,” the wizard chuckles, showing himself in and removing his hat. “Were you expecting someone else?”

Bilbo pauses, door still open. “No,” he says after a moment, and closes it.

“I thought I would drop in to give you a wake up call, lest you oversleep for a second day in a row. But I see that’s not needed. I take it there was no conkers to be played last night?”

Bilbo, eyes wide, very nearly asks Gandalf what kind of wizard trickery he’s been using to spy on him, before recalling their conversation from the previous morning. “No,” he says simply. “No conkers.”

“Well, then might I ask what kept you and Ori out of the library all day?”

Bilbo glances at his writing desk, at the stack of blank parchment that adorns it, at the cup that rests beside it. He imagines the shallow ring of wine that still sits at the bottom, the one he’s looked at approximately two dozen times this morning. He opens his mouth to speak, but the sound of another knock interrupts him.

His stomach drops. He dares not move.

“Do you intend to get that?” Gandalf asks expectantly.

Bilbo swallows, nods stiffly, and turns to the door. He cracks it open only enough to peek through to the outside steps, mind already flashing to what he expects to find and feeling clueless as to how to handle it. He sighs and lets the door swing completely open when he sees who it is.

“Hello, Bilbo,” Ori greets excitedly, eyes bearing the same sleepless shadows Bilbo is sure he would see in a mirror, if he had bothered to look in one this morning. Yet he seems to be experiencing that unnatural energy that tends to accompany lack of sleep, at least for a brief period. “I spent all night polishing up the sketches,” he says, removing his sketchbook from his bag. “I had to wait for Dori to fall asleep, and I couldn’t keep a candle on so I had to sit by the window. But I think you’re really going to like them.”

“Ori,” Bilbo begins warningly, but the dwarf ignores him.

“Oh, hello, Gandalf,” he says with a smile, his current state apparently rendering him unconcerned about the repercussions of spending the previous day away from work. “Did Bilbo tell you about Oaken?’

“Oaken?” Gandalf asks curiously. “Who is Oaken?”

“Well, Oaken isn’t his real name. He’s—” He cuts himself off with a shout as Bilbo splashes what’s left of the wine bottle all over Ori’s tunic, which still bears the evidence of yesterday’s spilt tea. “What did you do that for?”

“Very sorry about that, Ori. I’m so clumsy at this early hour. Oh no, look at this stain. Perhaps you should go home and change into something new.”

“Go home?” Ori cries. “Bilbo, if I only had my slingshot...”

“There’s no need for that, now. It was an only an accident, after all. Why don’t you just go into the washroom while Gandalf and I finish talking?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Ori objects. “To think, after everything I did for you yesterday…”

“Yes, yes, I’m very appreciative,” Bilbo rushes to say. “There’s no need to remind me.”

“What on earth are you two blathering on about?” Gandalf interrupts. “Who is Oaken? What are these drawings Ori seems to have been in such a hurry to complete? And why were you two absent from the library yesterday?”

Ori opens his mouth to answer, but Bilbo gives him a slap on the back that nearly sends him toppling to his face on the floor. “I’ll explain all of it, Gandalf. You see, yesterday I got to thinking about what you said, about my time in the city being what I make of it, and living up to my potential.”

“Yes?”

“So I decided to try. To do that.”

“Oh?” the wizard says, intrigued. “And did you?”

“Well, Minas Tirith wasn’t built in a day.”

“No,” Gandalf says, eyes narrowing. “I suppose it wasn’t. And what was Ori’s part in all of this?”

“Oh, I brought him along in case I wanted him to draw anything for me. But we didn’t get up to much worth documenting.”

Gandalf points to Ori’s sketchbook.“And what of those drawings he just mentioned?”

“Oh, these?” Bilbo says with a forced laugh. “These are just some sketches of Dori that he drew as a surprise. For his birthday, of course. Nothing you’d be interested in, I’m sure.” He says it almost like a challenge, daring the wizard to question him.

Gandalf raises one bushy eyebrow. “I suppose not. But what about this Oaken person you speak of? I’d quite like to hear more about him. He must be quite an interesting fellow, if he goes by a false name.”

Bilbo pretends he doesn’t notice Gandalf glance at the painting of Bag End as he says this, and simply replies, “Oaken was just a drunkard we met at the Old Guesthouse. Very amusing chap. Made up all sorts of stories and characters.”

“Is that so, Ori?” Gandalf wonders.

The dwarf looks helplessly between the wizard and the hobbit. Eventually, he nods.

“Well,” Gandalf exhales, as if listening to their string of lies exerted the same energy as climbing a mountain, “now that all of that has been cleared up, I shall take my leave. I expect to see both of you at the Citadel for the speech later.”

“Of course,” Bilbo assures him.

“I wonder,” the wizard begins before he leaves. “I heard tell from a little bird”—and knowing Gandalf, he probably means that literally—“that the Prince of Erebor was not, in fact, ill at all yesterday, and that he was instead on the run in the city.”

“Was he?” Bilbo asks, voice cracking ever so slightly.

“Mm. I suppose you two didn’t see him?”

Bilbo shrugs, and he hopes Ori’s expression isn’t giving anything away. “No princes for us, I’m afraid.”

“Quite a shame. That would have made an excellent record for the library.” And with an enigmatic smile and a donning of his hat, he’s out the door.

“What are you doing?” Ori asks incredulously once he’s gone. “Didn’t you hear what Gandalf just said?”

“Yes, I heard it.”

“Then why didn’t you tell him about the prince? There’s no need to be mysterious anymore. You have everything you need to write about.”

“I won’t be writing anything, Ori.”

“What are you talking about?” The dwarf’s eyes widen suddenly. “He didn’t find you out, did he?”

“No,” Bilbo clarifies, and it’s like salt in a fresh cut. “Nothing like that. I just changed my mind.”

“You changed your…” Ori trails off when he notices the hobbit’s downcast expression. “Oh,” he says with some level of recognition Bilbo can’t quite gauge.

They stand in silence for a moment, Bilbo looking away as he tugs his braces over his shoulders, Ori fiddling with the hem of his wine-drenched tunic.

“Well,” Ori says after a moment, “would you still like to see the drawings?”

He sets his sketchbook on the desk and opens it. Bilbo stands beside him and watches as he flips to the first drawing—of Thorin smoking Old Toby at the Old Guesthouse. He’s blowing a smoke ring, and although the picture isn’t colored, somehow Ori has perfectly captured the brightness of his eyes.

Bilbo’s lips part in silent amazement as each new drawing is revealed to him. There’s one of Thorin reaching out to put his hand in the Mouth of Berúthiel, body tense and face intent. Another one depicts his ride in the wagon on the way to the party, sandwiched between two taller men, one of whom Bilbo recognizes as the fellow he hit with a rock. He supposes he shouldn’t point that out to Ori.

Eventually they reach a sketch that causes Bilbo to laugh out loud. Ori has managed to capture the image of his and Thorin’s wild pony ride. It’s drawn from a low vantage point, that of an observer in danger of being trampled as Wasp gallops out of the stables—in other words, from Ori’s very real perspective as it was happening.

“I drew that while you were in the jail. It wasn’t hard to remember, you gave me such a fright.”

Bilbo, who was behind Thorin the entire ride and had nothing to go by but the contraction of the muscles where he gripped the dwarf’s middle, is surprised to see that Thorin’s mouth is open in what appears to be a mixture of shock and excitement. He might even call it joy. Bilbo’s wide, terrified eyes, meanwhile, can just barely be seen over his shoulder.

“Remarkable,” Bilbo mutters.

The next image is that of Thorin examining the wall of wishes, brow furrowed as he reads one of the inscriptions. Bilbo recalls watching Thorin in this moment and getting an idea.

“I had been thinking of opening with this part,” he tells Ori now. “The wall where wishes come true. And then to follow up with each of the wishes.”

“That sounds wonderful, Bilbo,” Ori remarks.

Bilbo hums. He doubts one of Thorin’s wishes would be to have his forbidden escapades written down for ages to come by someone he believed he could trust. And Bilbo’s wish—the one he made there one evening months ago when he was feeling particularly homesick—wouldn’t feel deserving of a tablet if it was granted by compromising the wish of another.

Ori continues flipping through the book, and at one point he turns past an image that catches Bilbo’s eye. “Wait,” he says, reaching over to return to the page. “What is this one?”

It’s a roughly sketched pencil drawing of Thorin petting Wasp the pony, before they decided to take him for a trot around the pen and found themselves flying through the streets of the city and into a jail cell. He’s in profile, a slight smile curling at the corners of his mouth and reaching undeniably to his eyes.

“Oh, I thought that one was a bit messy,” Ori says, “so I didn’t bother with it.”

“Could I—” Bilbo pauses. “That is, would you tear it out for me?”

Ori nods and carefully removes the page from his book. “Perhaps we can trade. Would you happen to have the first portrait I drew?” he wonders. “The one you borrowed?”

“Oh, yes, it’s in my—” He cuts himself off with a realization. “Oh.”

Reluctantly, he steps over to the jacket he was wearing yesterday, still where he threw it over the back of the chair. He reaches into the pocket to discover a waterlogged parchment with runny ink. He carefully unfolds it, tearing the edges in the process. The drawing it reveals is just barely recognizable as Thorin.

Bilbo turns guiltily to Ori, who can hardly bring himself to be surprised at this point. “I see,” he sighs. “In any case, I suppose it’s not very accurate anymore, what with the beard.”

“I’m sorry, Ori,” Bilbo confesses. “About this, and about the other drawings too. You’re free to do whatever you’d like with them. They’re yours, after all. And I promise to pay back everything I’ve borrowed. It just might take some time.”

“Don’t bother yourself about it,” the dwarf tells him. “But I won’t put you any more in debt,” he adds with a mock-serious point of his finger.

“I’ll never ask again,” Bilbo promises. Then, as Ori is closing his sketchbook, “Are you going to the speech?”

Ori looks at him uncertainly. “Are you?”

Bilbo shrugs. “I already missed it once. I suppose I shouldn’t miss it again.”

Ori nods, and Bilbo imagines he must be wondering just how much happened after Dori dragged him away last night to account for such a change of heart. After a moment of fidgeting with his shoulder bag, he moves toward the door. “I’ll see you there, then.”

When the door is closed, Bilbo collapses onto the sofa and pulls the quilt over his head. It’s almost funny, he thinks. Last night all he wished for was to see him one last time, but this isn’t exactly the circumstance he had in mind.

* * *

Balin has spent the entire morning trying to find a way for Thorin to appear as if he hasn’t cut his beard. He’s suggested chopping off an unnoticeable amount of hair and attaching it to his chin, he’s offered to sacrifice a piece of his own beard dyed black with ink, and he very nearly stabbed a pillow to craft one out of feathers. All of it Thorin has amusedly refused.

He has also refused to wear the boots that pinch his toes, instead donning the ones he bought in the city the day before. Balin yields only after Thorin has argued that it will appear to be a sign of respect towards the Gondorian people to be wearing the creation of one of their craftsmen.

Balin is so exhausted from arguing the previous two points that he hardly puts up a fight when Thorin informs him he plans to deliver his speech in his traveling cloak instead of his fur-trimmed robe. “Are you sure I don’t need Óin to check your head for injuries?” he asks.

“No, Balin,” Thorin tells him with a fond smile. “My head is fine.”

They wait in the King’s Hall before Thorin’s speech. It is eerily quiet, with every footstep echoing through the grand expanse of marble. The same kings who stared down at him from his bedroom ceiling are now staring down at him from the sleek black pedestals lining the walls. Morning sunlight streams through the narrow windows.

Balin is reminding him of all the points he is expected to make, and how loudly he will need to speak for his voice to carry, and Thorin is assuring him that he doesn’t need to be reminded, and on and on.

Suddenly, outside, trumpets sound, and Thorin hears his name announced: “His Royal Highness, Thorin, son of Thráin, Prince of Erebor.”

The imposing black doors open with a thump and a creak, and Thorin steps through. The crowd—which has gathered on the pavement and greensward just before the fountain and the blossomless white tree in the center of the courtyard—is made up mostly of the same nobility who attended the feast two nights ago, as well as the Tower Guard and several of Minas Tirith’s most wealthy and respected citizens. Thorin recalls Bilbo’s comment the previous day about the special permission required to enter the Citadel. It serves as a sobering reminder of the privileged life to which he has chosen to return.

Thorin stands on the top step, just outside the hall. He turns to his right to see Balin and Dwalin standing beside him and slightly behind. A few steps down, on the same side, stands the squad of Erebor guards and the remaining members of his entourage who have accompanied him on his journey. Looking to his left, he sees Turgon, Gondor’s elderly steward, seated in an intricately carved chair.

It’s when he drags his gaze to the very edge of the attending crowd, at the foot of the steep, gradually widening staircase, that he feels all of his senses go numb.

Seated at a low table, with a book open in front of him, a pot of ink beside it, and a quill in his hand, is Bilbo Baggins.

At first he thinks his eyes must be deceiving him, that perhaps that potion of Óin’s never quite wore off. Surely it’s just his sadness about parting ways with Bilbo, his wish to see him one last time, spoken like a mantra in his head as he fell asleep last night and through this morning, that has manifested itself in a false vision.

And yet seated beside Bilbo, nose once again buried in his sketchbook, is Ori, and beside him, standing next to the table, is a tall old man with a wise countenance, a staff in his hand and a pointed hat upon his head—Gandalf the Grey, there can be no doubt. Thorin glances between the faces, but his gaze lands the longest on Bilbo, who is looking not at his book, but at him.

It’s amazing the number of emotions Thorin experiences in that brief glance, as he puts the pieces together and realizes that Bilbo has not been honest with him, that he is aware of his identity, that he is here to document him, perhaps has been from the very start.

There is disappointment, betrayal, anger, embarrassment, regret, and all their various combinations and substitutes. But through it all, by the end of it, when he studies Bilbo’s expression, there is acceptance, and there is forgiveness, and there is trust.

Even at this distance, Thorin can see that Bilbo is smiling, not a wide grin or a smug smirk or anything forced out of politeness. It’s a smile that speaks more loudly through closed lips than open ones ever could.

It is an honest smile.

 _It doesn’t matter_ , he decides, and it amazes him just how easy it is. He told his own lies, stretched his own truths, would have had his own hand bitten off by Berúthiel had he the courage to test her. And yet, despite all of it, his feelings were real, this change he senses within himself is real, and he can only believe that it was as real for Bilbo. He has to believe it.

Just as he comes to this private conclusion, Balin clears his throat for him to begin speaking, and his attention is snapped back to the matter at hand. The crowd is staring at him expectantly.

“Good morning,” he says, nodding respectfully to his spectators. “Allow me to first apologize for my inability to speak to you yesterday morning. I was not at my best, but I feel much better now.”

He glances at Bilbo and notices that the hobbit has begun writing in his book. He forces himself to focus and continues.

“Today my grand tour of several months will come to an end, and I will return to my home in Erebor having fostered closer cooperation and understanding between dwarves and Men. I hope those present here feel the same. I have every faith in relations between Erebor and the realms of Men”—he pauses, looks at Bilbo again, hopes he understands—“as I have faith in relations between all Free Peoples of Middle-earth.”

There is silence in the courtyard then, and Bilbo, who has looked up from his transcription, breaks it, his voice small but strong, drawing the notice of the rest of the crowd: “May I say, on behalf of my own people, we believe that Your Highness’ faith will not be unjustified.”

Thorin swallows forcefully to smother the tears he feels tickling his eyes. “I am so glad to hear you say it,” he replies, and he doesn’t dare look at Balin, being able to predict what he must look like.

He certainly won’t enjoy what he has to say next.

“Though my royal advisor would undoubtedly prefer me to state, for the sake of diplomacy, that each location on my tour through the realms of Men was, in its own way, rewarding and unforgettable, and that it would be difficult to choose a favorite, I must confess that, without a doubt, I have enjoyed my time in Minas Tirith the most.” He looks again to Bilbo, who has once more paused his scribbling in favor of making eye contact with him. “I will cherish my visit here, in memory, as long as I live.”

If he could, he would remain forever in the warmth of Bilbo’s gaze as he hears Thorin declare this.

“Despite your illness?” the steward asks suddenly from his chair.

“Despite that,” Thorin confirms, and the steward appears exceptionally proud.

He doesn’t have much else to say, and yet he doesn’t want to step away yet. Before Balin has a chance to cut in and declare that his time has run out, he has an idea.

“If I may, I would now like to meet some of the attending citizens.”

There is sudden, hushed chatter all about, for such an act is clearly unplanned and unheard of. It only makes Thorin more determined to go through with it.

Instead of waiting for his observers to step up to him one by one, as was done at his reception, and as everyone likely expects to happen now, he steps down the stairs towards them, beginning at the opposite side of the crowd from where Bilbo sits.

Each person in the front row bows and states their name and title to him, and he tells them all what an honor it is to meet them, although he couldn’t repeat a single syllable of their names if you asked him, being so focused on the one waiting to greet him at the end of the line.

When he reaches Gandalf the Grey, the wizard shoots him a knowing smile, although he cannot imagine the cause of it. He merely nods and moves on to Ori, who appears nervous and slightly ashamed to be facing him.

“Ori,” he says, peering at him from beneath his lashes as he bows, “scribe for the city library.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ori.”

Ori hands him an envelope. “May I present Your Highness with some commemorative drawings of your visit to Minas Tirith?”

Thorin accepts the envelope and carefully peeks inside. The first page he sees depicts him and Bilbo on the back of a runaway pony. He quickly shoves it back inside and stifles a laugh. “Thank you,” he says as calmly as he can.

Then it’s Bilbo’s turn.

“Bilbo Baggins, scribe for the city library,” he says, and instead of bowing like the others, he extends his hand across the table.

Thorin takes it, knows it, memorizes it.

“So happy, Master Baggins.” He has many things he wishes he could say out loud, that he wishes he could share with Bilbo in the privacy of their own minds, but he hopes this is enough.

Bilbo’s eyes are blurry with tears, but he smiles at Thorin and squeezes his hand with a gentle pressure.

It is with perhaps the greatest reluctance of his life that Thorin lets go of Bilbo and turns to climb the stairs. Each step feels steeper than the last, until at last he reaches the top. He didn’t look back when he rounded the corner last night, but he allows himself to do so now.

He bows to those gathered before him. As the rest of them applaud, Bilbo stands with his hands crossed in front of him. He nods at Thorin, the smallest, quickest of movements, but it means more to Thorin than every clap from every nobleman present.

With one last lingering look, he turns away and, once the doors to the King’s Hall have been reopened, steps inside, followed closely by his entourage.

“What was all that?” Balin asks once the doors are closed.

“Nothing,” Thorin replies, for really, what’s one more lie for good measure?

* * *

Bilbo doesn’t move after the doors have been closed. The attending crowd scatters almost as soon as Thorin is out of sight, and Ori begins gathering his things beside him. After an awkward, questioning glance that Bilbo feels rather than sees, the fellow scribe moves off, on his way to the library.

A heavy hand rests on Bilbo’s shoulder, with not a word to go with it, and so Gandalf leaves too.

They all leave, and yet Bilbo remains, standing at his table, his pen and ink abandoned, his eyes fixed on the doors above him, as they were fixed on the street corner the evening before. There are only guards here now, silent and stoic at their posts. There is hardly a sound, only the trickle of water in the fountain and the flap of the guards’ standards and the soft whir of Bilbo’s breathing.

It’s only when he feels he has properly seared the past several moments into his memory—and when he senses that perhaps the guards are close to deciding he has overstayed his welcome—that he rounds up his things and makes his way across the courtyard, past the white tree and the fountain and the lush greensward, and towards the ramp leading to the level below.

How unexpected this all has been.

Neither of them had been very honest with each other, and yet somehow, Bilbo supposes, they were more honest than they ever had been with anyone else. Maybe not about where they came from or how they made a living or precisely why they were in each other’s company in the first place. But in the ways that mattered. In the ways they wouldn’t even have been honest with themselves about before yesterday.

An honesty in dishonesty. What an idea.

Bilbo reaches the foot of the ramp and looks down the narrow, busy street that awaits him.

He’d so often scoffed at the name “White City,” seeing grey everywhere he turned. But he thinks he can see the white now, beneath centuries of dirt and dust and decay. Perhaps he just wasn’t looking hard enough, so caught up in a longing to return to the greens and browns and sunny yellows he was familiar with. Perhaps he simply spent too much time conjuring a White City of legend and lore from the words he read in a dim library instead of seeing— _really seeing_ —what was right outside waiting for him.

Even hundreds of miles away, it was as if he hadn’t even stepped out from under his hill. It seemed that wherever he was, he always desired to be somewhere else, some ideal place that didn’t exist beyond the pages of a book. But if he wrote that book himself, if he made what was around him, what he could see and hear and touch, into the ideal, then maybe he could finally be satisfied.

So he moves forward through the throng and searches for a story. He already has the first chapter. Now all there is to do is continue it, for as long and as far as his feet and his pen and yes, maybe even the road, may take him.

Perhaps Gandalf was right—it’s what you make of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I went there. It wouldn't be a Roman Holiday AU without a bittersweet ending, folks. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's read and commented. I really appreciate it.


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